


It's Not the Things You Say

by dizzzylu



Series: It's Not the Things You Say [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuing the Cohen family tradition, eighteen year old Arthur is about to spend the summer before college with a mentor, a distant family friend tasked with helping Arthur transition from a doted upon only son in a family of women to responsible college student. Even though they seem well matched -- Eames a best selling author, Arthur interested in editing and publishing -- Arthur isn't exactly looking forward to spending his last summer stuck in a stuffy cabin with an old man he hasn't even met. Once Arthur arrives at Eames' Virginia lake house, that all changes. And just like that, the summer Arthur had been half-dreading doesn't seem nearly long enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure to check out the wonderful art by [adelaide_rain](http://adelaide-rain.livejournal.com/) [here](http://adelaide-rain.livejournal.com/42430.html)!

Arthur looks at his Smart Car then at the picturesque sky and thinks, not for the first time, that he should've waited another year. Saved long enough to spring for the cabriolet instead of settling for the coupe. After all, the impending six hour drive to a remote lake in the wilds of Virginia would be a lot more enjoyable if he could put the top down.

He sighs, hands in his pockets, as he wishes once again that he were headed to the beach instead, relaxing for the first time after eight grueling years of the finest education Annapolis has to offer. Eighteen years if he counts from the day he was born and first tormented by his older sisters.

The screen door slams shut from behind him and he turns to see his mother walking out, handkerchief clutched in one hand, a brown paper sack in the other. Arthur manages not to roll his eyes, but it's a close thing. 

"There's a sandwich and some snacks in here," she explains, handing him the bag. He has to look away from her eyes, shining with unshed tears, and decides to inspect the bag: peanut butter and jelly with baby carrots and a snack-size bag of Doritos. "Do you think you'll need more?"

"You really didn't have to," he says instead of, _I'm not five anymore, mom_. He drops it into the driver's seat, half hoping to smash it when he gets in. 

She frames Arthur's face with her hands, forcing him to look at her instead of the ground. "Arthur Cohen, you may be eighteen, but you'll always be my baby. It's my job, don't take that away from me." 

A tear slides down one cheek and Arthur follows it with the pad of his thumb, makes a soft sound in the back of his throat as he pulls her to him, wrapping her up in his long arms. Her head fits perfectly under his chin. "You act like I'm going off to war," he chides gently, brushing his lips against the dry skin of her temple. "I'll be back in three months. Maybe less."

There's a long, loud sniff and his mom pulls away, her cheeks wetter than before. "I know, I know. I just can't help it." She waves his hand away and uses the kerchief to dab at her tears. "Are you all ready to go, then?"

Arthur looks back at the car, checking to make sure he's got both duffels and his laptop bag. He's about to answer her when she grabs his arm. "I forgot one thing, wait here." He watches her disappear into the house, only to emerge a moment later with his garment bag. He can't stop his eyes from rolling this time.

"Mom, I'm gonna be in the middle of the woods. Not in New York or Paris. I doubt I'll be needing any sort of formal attire, let alone my suit."

She pushes past him to lay his suit out over the other bags, skims a palm over it to smooth out the wrinkles. "You never know, Arthur. You might meet a handsome young man while you're working. Or," she slips her hands into her pockets and makes a small surprised sound, "when you're at that bookshop. I just want you prepared." 

She looks down at her right pocket, and her hand comes out holding a wad of bills. "I can't believe I almost forgot this, either," she worries, pressing them into Arthur's hand. "Just in case."

Arthur doesn't count the money in front of her, but he can guess he's holding about two hundred dollars. Maybe three. " _Mom_..." he says gently as he tries to give it back, reaches out for her pocket when she pulls her hands away, but she's adamant.

"Just take it, Arthur. Or I'll send it to Eames and have him sneak it into your wallet somehow." She has a hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks, and she doesn't let go until he pulls back and stuffs the bills in his pocket, frowning slightly.

Arthur shakes his head and pulls her into another hug. "You're impossible, y'know."

"It's my job," she reminds him with a haughty sniff. 

Eventually, her arms find their way around his waist again and squeeze hard. He can feel her tears dampening his shirt, but he lets her have the moment. Even takes one of his own to close his eyes and inhale deeply, getting one last whiff of the unique collection of smells that is his mother: fresh baked cookies, coffee, and cold cream.

When he feels her arms slacken a little bit, he pushes gently at her shoulders. Her eyes are red and cheeks tear-streaked and, in this moment, he loves her impossibly. "Three months, mom. I'm coming _back._ "

She nods, her lips forming a tight, thin line. He can see the tremors anyway. Her head tips up and she kisses him once on each cheek, tweaks his nose when he thumbs away her tears and kisses her forehead. "Drive safe," she manages; a wretched, hoarse sound.

Arthur nods, not trusting himself to talk as he feels tears prick his own eyes. His mom retreats to the shade of the porch, clinging to the column to watch Arthur make one final check of his baggage and shift the sack lunch to the passenger seat in an overly obvious gesture before getting behind the wheel. He turns the key and gives her a long look, a flash of his dimples, and slings his arm over the passenger seat, twisting to check his rear view. There's nobody coming and it only takes one smooth move for Arthur to back out and shift into drive, giving his mom one last wave before pulling away.

It doesn't take him long to get to the US-50 on-ramp, but there is a long, quiet moment of indecision where he almost decides to go east toward Rehoboth Beach and his friends. Predictably, Arthur's conscience rears its ugly head and he turns west instead, leaving Annapolis behind.

On a perfect day, Google maps says it's a five hour drive to the lake. Arthur manages to stretch it out for another hour by enjoying the beauty of the day, despite his lack of a convertible. The farther away from home he gets, the more relaxed he feels in his neck and shoulders. And as the disembodied voice of the GPS tells him when and where to turn, Arthur finds himself almost looking forward to the summer. At least he'll be out from under his sisters' thumbs for once. 

Sure he'd outgrown the shortest one by four inches a few years back and hadn't let them put make-up on him since he was nine, but they still manage to treat him like their baby most of the time, anyway. He loves them all fiercely, but a guy's got to grow up sometime, and though he'd hoped they would've figured that out once they all went to college and spent some time away from him, it had yet to happen. This trip might just be his final hope.

Sooner than he likes, Arthur's pulling into a long, winding driveway, trees lining either side. The branches meet in the middle, creating a thick canopy of leaves that blocks out the waning rays of the evening sun. The lack of light makes the car's headlights flick on. 

It hadn't been this dark the last time he was here, he thinks, then gives himself a mental slap. It'd just been the beginning of the growing season, he remembers, the trees still bare, but budding out in anticipation of the spring thaw. Now, though, it's a riot of greens and golds, and Arthur slows a little to try and pick out the different species.

The house at the top of the drive is just how Arthur remembers it, a sprawling log cabin-esque structure with a row of windows reaching from one end to the other, broken up only by the double front door. Another shorter line of windows starts above the door and stops just short of the end of the house, skylights dotting the roof all the way across. An exposed stone chimney anchors one end of the house, smoke lazily curling up past the cover of the trees. A wide, columned porch wraps around the other end, disappearing toward the back of the house into what Arthur assumes will be a deck.

"Could make a lot of money here as a window washer," Arthur murmurs to himself, pulling up to a detached garage that echoes the house's design; all thick, blonde logs with an exposed stone foundation interrupted by two car-size doors and one wider door on the farthest end. Arthur parks in front of the closest one, then grabs his suit and a duffel and approaches the porch, two intimidating columns flanking either side of the flagstone steps. He rings the doorbell and waits a moment, scanning the vegetation and listening to the variety of bird calls all around him. 

It's peaceful, he can at least admit that, out here in the woods. A blue heron croaks in the distance, so loud it sounds as though it's standing right next to him; his eyes slant down to check, just in case. The air tastes cleaner, too, doesn't make his lungs feel thick when he breathes. 

The heron calls again, loud and rough, and Arthur realizes he's been standing on the porch for several long minutes, lost in the shushing of the trees and the sharp whistling of a pair of cardinals. Turning back to the door, he peeks through the sidelight to see if he can spot Eames or, at the very least, a person-shaped shadow. He doesn't.

The door looks to be solid oak, and his knocking will probably be futile, but he tries it anyway, knocking hard enough for his knuckles to come away sore. He watches through the window again, frowns when still nobody appears. Collecting his duffel, Arthur decides to follow the driveway where it curves around the side of the house, in between it and the garage. 

The backyard is a lot like the front: a deck that runs the entire length of the house; a natural-looking landscape with plenty of trees and shrubs; a sparkling lake beyond that where Arthur can see tiny dots skimming over its surface.

Arthur is so captivated by the sight, he doesn't see Eames ten feet in front of him and a little to the right, messing around in one of the few sunnier gardens. It isn't until Eames stands, bare-chested and sweaty, wiping his hands on the jeans hanging low on his hips, that Arthur sees him. And when Eames smiles at him and says hello in a smoky British accent, those obscene, pink lips rounding themselves around the 'O', Arthur's mouth goes dry.

_Oh, shit._

: : :

Here's the thing.

Arthur's known that this summer was coming for years. It's been a tradition on his dad's side of the family for as far back as anybody can remember; the Cohen men leaving the nest for a summer of manly bonding and maturing before they head off to university. It's not a horrible tradition, getting away from all the clucking and mothering of four (sometimes more) sisters, but like any proper teenager, Arthur had fought it tooth and nail, wanting instead to join Yusuf and Ariadne and a dozen of their closest friends in a house in Rehoboth Beach for the first half of the summer.

But his mother had insisted this would be better for him, that this supposed family friend -- _Eames_ , no mister -- would not only be a good male influence and help him acclimate to living on his own, but could also be a mentor and excellent contact point for future networking.

So, off they'd gone, taking the week of spring break -- and really, Arthur was already giving up his summer for this ridiculous, archaic nonsense, did he have to sacrifice his spring break, too?!? -- to get to know the area where he would be living for three months. Find a job and the good stores, a cozy bookshop-slash-coffee shop for Arthur to lose himself in, an amusement park to go to once he made some friends.

They covered everything they thought Arthur would need during the summer. Except, unfortunately, for meeting Eames, who hadn't been available due to his youngest sister's wedding.

Which is how Arthur finds himself speechless, duffel bag in his right hand, garment bag slung over his shoulder in the left, mouth watering at the sight of golden, inked skin, sheened in sweat, and coming closer to him with every wide, graceful step.

Arthur hadn't thought about it much, really, what this summer would be like, what _Eames_ would be like. Mostly because he kept busy with studying and working and the cross-country team. But also because thinking about it for too long just made him mad all over again. 

The few times he did let himself wonder, however, he imagined Eames older with a bit of a belly, oily grey hair styled in a lame comb-over. The house, though he'd seen the outside of it during his spring break trip, he wagered would be filled with 70s kitsch and shag carpeting. Probably a water wall and at least a dozen stupid lava lamps.

Ok, so maybe Arthur has a bit of a vindictive streak. He also doesn't like to admit when he's wrong, but in this case, he would happily eat crow all night long.

He has to drop his duffel as Eames approaches, hand reaching out, smiling wide. His voice is rough and his British accent clipped when he says, "Arthur, nice to finally meet you."

It's instinctual to reach out and shake his hand, the skin of Eames' palm sandpapery against Arthur's own. Bigger, too; his thick, blunt fingers an enveloping warmth. Arthur looks down at them for a long moment, then back up to Eames and his startling blue-grey eyes. 

"You, too," he gets out, finally, not sounding quite as weak as it could have. Eames gives his hand a squeeze, then lets go and bends over to pick up the bag. Arthur tries to protest, but Eames is already halfway to the house, carrying the bag like it weighs nothing, and it isn't until Eames is at the door and calling his name that Arthur startles, realizes he'd been staring at the flexing muscles of Eames' back. How broad his shoulders are and how his back tapers at the waist. How the jeans are just barely hanging on to those slim hips, teasing Arthur by highlighting the top swell of Eames' ass. 

Arthur swallows and shakes himself out of his daze. "I'm sorry?"

"Come on in and I'll give you the tour." His eyebrows flicker into a half-frown, but his smile doesn't falter. 

Arthur follows him inside.

: : :

Despite how fancy it looks on the outside, the inside of the house is rather humble. Not quite the typical bachelor pad -- clothes strewn all over, empty cups and plates littering every available flat surface, skin mags and pizza boxes carpeting the floor -- but also not filled with priceless furniture Arthur would be too afraid to sit on.

Most of the woodwork is light, to brighten up a house blanketed in shade. In the living room, the effect is offset by a chocolate brown sofa and hunter green club chairs, all facing a massive entertainment center on the opposite wall. The fireplace, Arthur notes, is real; a stack of logs sits to the side of it.

The kitchen is more formal with all the of the appliances finished in stainless steel, which helps reflect what little light streams in through the wall of windows overlooking the lake. There is a bar with stools to sit on and chat with Eames while he works, but there's also a little nook that sticks out, breaking the straight line of the house. It's in the shape of half a hexagon and protrudes so far from the house, Arthur almost feels like it's its own stand-alone structure. It is positioned so that Arthur has the most fantastic view of the lake to where it disappears on the horizon, and wonders if the house was built this way or if the vegetation was removed to create the view.

He has just enough time to decide on a little bit of both before Eames is waving toward a shadowed hallway that leads to his bedroom and office, then takes the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor and disappears around a corner. Arthur once again finds himself transfixed by the ease with with Eames slings the bag around, as if it isn't filled with just about every article of clothing Arthur owns. Eames peeks around the wall, eyebrows raised, to get Arthur moving again, and there's a slight heat burning in Arthur's cheeks. 

When he turns the corner, Eames is dropping Arthur's bag on the floor and spreads his arms wide only to let them fall to his sides. "And this'll be your room."

Arthur finds himself in a huge room that takes up the entirety of the second floor and looks more inviting than his own bedroom at home. Its centerpiece is a heavy king-size bed, the wood stained dark, topped with a plush comforter and an obscene pile of pillows, all in varying shades of pale yellow. Paired with the color of the walls, it looks like the sun in a idyllic blue sky.

The rest of the furniture matches the bed in color but not style. While the headboard has intricate carvings in it, the vanity is plain and utilitarian, the bureau an antique, the nightstand modern and quirky.

At the other end of the room is a cozy sitting area anchored by a smaller version of the living room's entertainment center. Facing it is a midnight blue loveseat and matching overstuffed chairs. The coffee table is actually a chest, the same color as the rest of the wood furniture, with a lid that Eames lifts to show Arthur where extra blankets are stored. On the same wall are two closed doors that Arthur decides to explore later, while he unpacks.

He turns back to Eames who's still standing near the coffee table, hands in his pockets. For the first time, he looks a little nervous and this more than anything helps settle Arthur, despite finding it difficult to not follow the curling tendrils of the tattoo on Eames' shoulder with his eyes, if not his fingers.

Arthur breaks the awkward silence first. "I like it. It's nice." 

"My sister picked everything out." Eames explains. "She comes to visit more often than I'd like, and insists on it being just like home when she does. No ugly bedspread and lumpy sofa for her."

Arthur grins. "Sounds like you two are close."

Eames winks when he says, "Unlike you and your sisters, I'm sure."

"I can assure you, that's not by choice," Arthur replies, but he's smiling when he says it.

"Oh, speaking of my sister," Eames shrugs and, for the first time, breaks eye contact with Arthur first. A light blush stains Eames' cheeks. "She'll be here the end of next month. She wasn't supposed to be, but she has some business to attend to. I'll need you to sleep on the downstairs couch while she's here. I'm terribly sorry."

Arthur waves away the apology. "I'm the guest in this equation. I'll be fine."

Eames nods. "Well, I think you can figure everything out from here. Make yourself at home, yeah? I usually eat dinner around seven. Is there anything you don't or can't eat that I should know about?"

"I'm allergic to shellfish. But other than that..."

"Right. You're easy. I like that." Eames grins and chuckles and Arthur can't stop the spike of lust, or the smile that follows it. "Dinner. Seven." Eames nods once, smiling, and leaves, allowing Arthur the time and privacy to get comfortable.

: : :

Finding plenty of room in the walk-in closet (door number two) and en suite (door number one) for all of his belongings, Arthur takes his time unpacking. He can hear Eames rattling around when he comes downstairs to get the rest of his things. Cleaning up, maybe; preparing dinner, probably.

Back upstairs, Arthur's fists clench every time he replays the moment in the garden, how Eames rose to his feet in one smooth move, all his limbs uncurling and stretching. The smile he gave Arthur, a little shy, a lot crooked, framed by lush lips begging to be sucked, begging to be _fucked_. Warm like the hand he'd offered. The skin dry but soft in a way, rasping against Arthur's slimmer fingers when it pulled away.

Eames' back flashes behind Arthur's eyes, the broad expanse of it, the strong line of his spine and the sweat gathered in the hollow at the end of it. His mouth twitches at the thought of falling to his knees and kissing that spot. Barely more than a brush of his parted lips, gathering the sweat and salt with his tongue. 

There is cold marble under Arthur's hands when he comes back to himself, leaning on the vanity, face to face with himself in the mirror. He's flushed, his eyes dark. And-- yes, his cock has been enjoying the mental playback. He spits out a curse and grinds the heel of his hand along the hot length, hoping to get himself under control. It doesn't work.

A bottle of hand lotion catches Arthur's eye. He reaches for it as he kicks the door closed and wrenches his shirt off. His cock is hot and throbbing through the material of his shorts when he unzips them, carefully pushing them and his boxers over his erection. He thumbs at the head, hissing at being so sensitive already, and slicks his palm with the precome there. With the lotion and snapshot fantasies of what Eames would look like during sex -- Arthur's legs wrapped around his waist or over his shoulders; Eames looming large and heavy and taking Arthur from behind; Eames pinning Arthur against a wall, easily taking his weight -- it doesn't take Arthur very long to come, shaky and gasping, all over his stomach and chest.

Arthur wants to be surprised at this turn of events, already crushing on a guy he's just barely met, a guy he has to spend the next three months _living_ with, a guy old enough to be-- well, not his father, but a much older brother, at least. Which is sort of what everybody was hoping Arthur would get out of this trip. A male relationship for Arthur whose dad had died far too soon.

The fact is, Arthur's always been attracted to guys that are older than him. 

It started with his next door neighbor, Tyler, a boy four years older than Arthur. A good kid, if a little quiet, with all-American good looks: blonde hair, blue eyes, picture-perfect smile. The only time they really spent together was when they were mowing the grass in the summer. Tyler with his shirt off, his body just starting to muscle out from his baseball playing, looked flawless in the sun, his skin golden and glistening as they shared a glass of lemonade on the porch.

Then there was the morning Arthur woke up with a mess in his underwear, cold and sticky and confusing. He'd buried the evidence deep in his hamper, then washed up in the bathroom as quietly as possible, half-remembering how he'd dreamt of Tyler shirtless and on Arthur's bed, just lying there. He never mentioned the episode to anybody. Not the first time.

When it happened for the third time in two weeks, he had to know. He explained it to Yusuf, his nerdy best friend, and swore him to secrecy before explaining the situation, leaving the bizarre dreams of Tyler out of the equation. Arthur felt better knowing that this was normal, but still confused about why Tyler was the object of his new-found lust.

And then, as it usually happens in a military-heavy neighborhood, Tyler's dad was reassigned after a year, and Arthur's crush disappeared along with them.

After that, it was Ariadne's older cousin. _Much_ older cousin. Nearly ten years older than the two of them. Visiting from Greece for the first time ever, he was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. All long limbs and a charming smile with dark eyes and darker hair. Thirteen year old Arthur never stood a chance, hanging out at Ariadne's parents' nursery, helping to bag purchases (for no pay, thank you very much) and trying not to stare as Theo hefted hundred pound trees around like they weighed nothing, the muscles of his back flexing and shifting with each movement.

(He was also the first in a long line of guys with accents that Arthur fell head over heels for, but he tries not to analyze that too much.)

Arthur manages to last a whole week before jacking off to thoughts of Theo, his skin flawless and golden, his hair damp and curling with sweat, how heavy his hands are when he rests them on Arthur's shoulders. But once the floodgates are open, a teenager's libido cannot be contained, and though Arthur's sure his mom thinks the amount of tissues and lotion he goes through that summer is excessive, she doesn't say a word. Something for which Arthur is eternally grateful.

When August rolls around, Theo returns to Greece, bronzed and smiling, leaving behind Arthur's broken heart and the growing realization that he's gay.

Jake breezes into Arthur's life when he's sixteen and just starting to get comfortable with his gangly limbs. Being on the cross-country team helps with that, but so does hanging out with Marcus, whose dad is the coach for the team, and is also kind of the opposite of Arthur in every way, including the fact that he comes from a family of all boys. 

One of those brothers is Jake, in his third year at the local state college, majoring in music. On his off days, he assists his dad with the coaching duties. 

Arthur tries not to make too much of it when Jake seems to be extra friendly toward Arthur, offering to help with extra coaching after practice, or a ride home if the weather's not ideal. It's a little more difficult to ignore the random touching. Nothing untoward, but he definitely touches Arther more than the other boys; a hand brushing against his shoulder while running drills, or maybe too high on Arthur's thigh when helping to deepen a stretch.

Jake is attractive and a truly nice guy, but Arthur is only out to Yusuf and Ariadne and, due to a horribly embarrassing accident, his family, so he's a little unsure what to do with this new-found attention. Ends up ignoring it until he can't, spends too many late nights remembering hot brown eyes and slim, nimble fingers. Long hair and longer legs.

At the end of the school year, Coach has the whole team over for a barbecue. It's an unseasonably warm day for May in Annapolis, so they've opened the pool and all the boys shed their shirts the minute they step in the yard. The girls change upstairs in the bedrooms, and then it's a free for all, screaming and laughing and having a good time. All of Marcus' brothers are there, including Jake, and Arthur feels his gaze like a physical thing, heavy on his back. He darts furtive looks at Jake, but is never quite able to catch his eye.

Later, when Arthur's in the house washing his hands so he can get a snack (ok, a third plate of food), there's a breeze on his back and, as he looks up into the mirror, Jake is looking back at him, eyes wide and dark.

"I thought I locked that," Arthur manages to say around the lump in his throat.

Jake looks down at the knob in his hand, then back up at Arthur. "This door's always been a little tricky."

Arthur nods and reaches for the towel. "Right. Well. I'm done here, so..." He approaches the door -- approaches Jake _blocking_ the door -- and stops just short of touching him. Looks up at him with an arched brow, waiting for Jake to move aside. When he doesn't, Arthur tries to push lightly at his hip, his fingertips barely registering the moisture on Jake's skin.

Jake sighs his name and Arthur feels it on his face, they're that close. He can't look up, _won't_ look up, until Jake cups his cheek, tilting his head up. Just that touch sets Arthur's blood on fire, rushing through his veins to his groin, filling his cock almost painfully fast.

His eyes are closed when lips brush his, damp and light. Then again, and again, each one longer than before. Arthur whispers yes against Jake's lips, all the permission he needs to place a hand on Arthur's shoulder and push him back, close the door behind them. Arthur feels himself being guided, slowly, in a turn. His eyes pop open at the touch of cool, slick wood on his heated skin, and the way Jake's eyes have gone black sends a shiver down Arthur's spine.

"You have no idea..." Jake whispers into the skin of Arthur's neck, sucking at the pulse, dragging his teeth down the curve to Arthur's neck. Arthur's hands find Jake's hips and cling, fingers struggling for purchase on all that damp skin just so he can stay on his feet. His cock is throbbing and he whines when Jake passes the back of his hand over it, teasing.

Then Jake's mouth is on a nipple, hot and wet and _sucking_. Arthur's fingers thread through Jake's hair and clench, holding him there, thinking he couldn't possibly feel anything better than this. Until Jake drags the pad of his thumb up the spine of Arthur's cock. Even through the wet swim trunks, Arthur can feel the heat and bucks, panting, into the touch, unconsciously guiding Jake's head down, down, down.

Jake chuckles, a hot puff of air gusting over Arthur's belly button, and pulls Arthur's trunks down agonizingly slowly, fingernails a deliciously sharp drag over Arthur's ass. When Arthur whimpers, Jake sucks a kiss into his hip, using his teeth and tongue to raise a bruise there. "Don't worry Arthur, I'm gonna take care of you."

Arthur looks down and his cock is hard and red and leaking, and Jake's mouth is _right there_ , his lips pink and damp. His tongue darts out and the tip of it brushes the crown, smears through the precome, and Arthur can't close his mouth against the, "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come, _fuck_ I'm gonna--"

And then Jake is on him -- he is _in_ Jake -- his mouth hot and slick and obscene where the lips stretch around Arthur. All Jake does is pull up, his tongue dragging up the spine of Arthur's cock, and suckle at the head, teasing at the slit with the tip of his tongue. Arthur has no time to warn him, wouldn't know to do so if he did, before he's coming. Jake pumps him through it, taking everything Arthur can give him, _swallowing_ it, and Arthur thinks he might come again just from that. From Jake thumbing at the corner of his mouth, catching anything he might have missed and sucking it clean.

Arthur's legs can't hold him, they give out as soon as Jake's hand is no longer on his hip, pinning him in place, and he sinks to the floor, Jake kneeling in the vee of his legs. Jake leans forward to kiss him this time, really kiss him with teeth and tongue and a salt-bitter taste. All Arthur can do is hang on, his fingers threaded in the hair at Jake's nape. He can hear himself making these needy little sounds in the back of his throat, and his cock twitches when Jake's tongue slides against his own over and over again. 

Jake slips an arm around Arthur's waist, pulls him up and close, so that Arthur is sitting on Jake's knees, naked, and chest to chest with him. The heat of Jake's body feels good, and Arthur shifts closer, hooking his arms around Jake's neck. Jake growls in appreciation, sucking at Arthur's lip, his chin, the hinge of his jaw. 

His lips brush against Arthur's pulse again when he says, "You have no idea how gorgeous you are, do you?" 

A blush warms Arthur's face, and he's ridiculously glad Jake can't see it right now. He shifts closer, tries to wrap his legs around Jake's waist when he feels it; the hot, hard length pressing into his belly. He freezes, but Jake doesn't notice. His hand is working its way between them, trying to get his shorts down despite Arthur's weight pinning them in place. 

Arthur leans back to give him room and Jake lets him, his face flushed and eyes black when he finally gets enough room to free his cock. It's cut like Arthur's, but a little longer and a little thicker. The head glistens in the sunlight, precome sticky and leaking and, without even thinking it, Arthur's hand is there, thumbing over the head where it peeks out from the circle of Jake's fingers.

Jake groans Arthur's name, long and low and completely _wrecked_ , and it spurs Arthur on. He slots his fingers in between Jake's, lets Jake set the pace. He startles when he presses his thumb under the head and Jake's whole body jerks. He's chanting _fuck fuck fuck_ , so Arthur does it again, and that's it. Jake is coming in long streaks over Arthur's chest and stomach, breath rough and stuttering. 

Arthur slides back to the floor and watches Jake's eyes flutter shut, his lashes two dark smudges against the fading red skin. He can't stop staring, can't stop thinking about how gorgeous Jake looks like this, and desperately wishes he knew what to do now. If it's still okay to touch, to kiss and taste and want. 

Jake answers it by reaching out for him, his thumb slicking over Arthur's nipple and the come there. He raises it to Arthur's mouth, just watching, and Arthur makes sure to keep eye contact with him as he takes it in, tonguing over the whorls on the pad, sucking down to the knuckle. The taste isn't great, but it's not the worst thing he's ever had (well, there was that time with the goldfish). Jake's pupils go wide, and the pride arrows straight to Arthur's cock. He's hard, again, and he _wants_. Wants Jake and his hands, his mouth, his cock, on and in and all around him. 

Jake smirks a little, his gaze dropping to Arthur's cock, his hand, too. The one from Arthur's mouth. He drags his fingers through the mess and uses his own come to slick his hand up and down Arthur's cock, slow and steady. Arthur wants to thrust into it, but Jake pushes him back, stretching out next to him on the cool tile, and pins Arthur down with his mouth and his chest. 

He kisses Arthur like he jacks him off, slow and torturous, and chuckles at every one of Arthur's whimpers. "Let me make it good, Arthur. So, so good."

And Arthur does. He can't _not_ , all of his limbs loose and heavy, his hand in Jake's hair serving no other purpose than to reassure Arthur that this isn't a dream. Jake is there, tasting of come and sweat and chlorine, his chest a reassuring weight on Arthur's, his hand slow and teasing on Arthur's cock. 

Minutes pass, maybe hours, even. Days; it doesn't matter. Arthur doesn't _care_. He wants to keep this feeling forever. His heart full, the tight tingling in the base of his spine, the restless shifting of his legs. And then Jake, his clever mouth right next to Arthur's ear say, "Come on, Arthur. Come for me." And he does. Every muscle clenching, his mouth forming a silent 'O' that Jake nips at, his hand carefully teasing the last of the orgasm out of Arthur.

They lay there for long moments, Arthur's ragged breathing the only sound in the room. Jake is next to him, his head pillowed on his own arm, but tipped towards Arthur's neck so that every exhale stirs the hair behind Arthur's ear. Arthur shifts a little closer, seeking out the body heat, and Jake gathers him close with a hand on Arthur's hip.

Arthur tries not to snuggle, but he can't help it. The tile is so cool and Jake is so warm, and his ass fits perfectly in the cradle of Jake's hips, his head not quite tucked under Jake's chin. He can't help the smile, either. Doesn't want to. The floor is hard and cold and he's a sticky mess, but he would stay there with Jake all night if that's what Jake wanted.

Of course, Jake eventually pulls away, pushing Arthur down when he tries to get up, too. Arthur doesn't fight it or the yawn that follows, his eyes falling shut after. He can hear Jake moving around, opening and closing a cabinet, running water, then there's a wet heat at his groin, nothing like what Jake's mouth felt like. He looks down and Jake's cleaning him up, careful of Arthur's sensitive cock. He drags the washcloth up, pausing at the hip to thumb over the skin there, and Arthur winces. There's a bruise, he can feel it, and he just knows it's the exact shape of Jake's mouth, can't wait to look in the mirror and see it for himself.

Jake's less careful with Arthur's belly and torso, but he circles the nipples gently, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. For a second, Arthur's sure Jake is going to dip down and taste him again, drag the flat of his tongue over each hardened tip, but he doesn't. His fingertips skate down Arthur's side, and then he bumps Arthur's hip with the back of his hand. "Good as new," he grins.

Arthur rolls onto his back as Jake stands, letting himself watch Jake at the sink, rinsing the washcloth out to clean his own body off. There's a line low on his hips where the skin above is dark and his ass, just below is ghostly white. _Next time_ , Arthur thinks to himself, _I'm going to run my tongue along that line._

Jake turns and offers Arthur a hand in getting up, his smile bright and warm. He pulls Arthur to him with his hands on Arthur's hips, into the vee of his legs, and kisses him, soft and quiet. When Arthur pulls away to breathe, Jake presses their foreheads together. His breath ghosts over Arthur's lips as he says, "You really are amazing, you know." 

Arthur's silent, unsure how to respond, until Jake squeezes his hip. "Yeah," Arthur says finally, a little breathless. "You, too."

Jake laughs then, loud in the confined space, and he's hugging Arthur, arms wrapped tight around Arthur's shoulders. "Bruise my ego why don't you?" But Arthur looks at him and he's smiling, so Arthur smiles back. 

"We'd better get back, though. Somebody's probably missing us." Arthur nods and finds his trunks, can't stop himself from watching Jake bend over, his ass high in the air. It's not far and if Arthur leaned over just a little bit, he could bite it, leave his own mark...

But then the trunks are up, hiding the pale skin, and Jake is guiding Arthur out into the kitchen as he detours for his bedroom. Arthur glances at the clock before he steps outside and startles at the hour he lost in the bathroom. Nobody says anything, though. He slips right back into the pool like nothing happened, and is immediately challenged to a game of chicken.

It isn't until later, when everybody is toweling off to go home that Arthur realizes he hasn't seen Jake since the bathroom. He doesn't ask, though. Knows it would look weird. A week later, a week Arthur spends wondering and worrying about how one follows up something like that, he shows up at Marcus' house for another pool party and figures out what happened. 

The day is so similar to the track team party that Arthur half expects Jake to come walking out of the house at any time. But then he hears Marcus' mom talking to one of the neighbors, hears Jake mentioned, and moves closer, hoping nobody will notice that he's eavesdropping. He hears words like road trip, and entire summer and girlfriend, and Arthur's stomach drops somewhere in the vicinity of his feet.

He manages to make it through the rest of the party, though how he doesn't know, and spends the first three weeks of his summer vacation bouncing between work and Ariadne and Yusuf, drowning his sadness and confusion with pints of Ben and Jerry's Cinnamon Buns. Eventually, he forgets Jake, as much as he can, and puts some distance between himself and Marcus. 

He doesn't quit the team, though. In fact, he throws everything into it after that, making track and school and work his life. Ariadne and Yusuf think it's a little unhealthy, but it's what gets him accepted at NYU (and everywhere else he applies), so he can't much regret closing off his heart.

: : :

After Arthur stows the last of his socks in the bureau, he glances at the clock and is startled to see almost two hours have gone by. He throws his empty bags into the closet and makes his way downstairs, heading straight for the kitchen.

Eames doesn't notice him at first, and Arthur takes advantage of it. He watches Eames, still barefoot, move from the refrigerator to the sink to the center island with ease, a graceful dance he's no doubt performed thousands of times before.

Arthur frowns a little at the t-shirt Eames has put on, but the material's thin enough to see the shadows of the tattoos underneath, and the way the material stretches over his shoulders makes him seem even wider than before. It's short, too; the hem just meeting the waistband of Eames' jeans, so that when he bends over to retrieve a bowl from the cabinet, a wide strip of skin is exposed, a teasing glimpse of Eames' tan line. Arthur's fingers itch with the desire to find out what that skin feels like, if it's as warm and smooth as it looks.

Eames is deft with the knife, the blade glinting in the light as it slices through a head of lettuce. He smiles at Eames' concentration, the way he bites down on his lower lip even though he's just chopping up lettuce. Arthur wants to put his thumb there, tug it free and run his tongue over the teethmarks. Maybe suck on it a little to make it plump and rosy again.

Arthur stops that train of thought in its tracks, knowing he would never survive dinner with a raging hard on. Nor does he have the time to take care of it again.

He waits until Eames is done with the knife before he asks if he can help with anything. Eames startles anyway, but at least he doesn't cut his finger off. He points to the rest of the vegetables on the counter. "You could finish the salad. I've got to get the steaks on the grill." 

Since it doesn't involve heat or the stove in any way, Arthur's fairly confident in his abilities. Eames passes by Arthur on his way out, but doesn't touch him, and the only sound he makes is the quiet rumble of the screen in its track. A cool breeze carries the chorus of crickets into the house and raises goose bumps on Arthur's arms and legs while he works. 

With the salad done and the table set, there's nothing left for Arthur to do but wait for Eames. He flounders for something to do, anything really. Thinks about looking in the fridge for something to drink (maybe even a beer, he muses silently), but doesn't yet feel comfortable enough for that. He could sit at the table and wait, but that could seem too pushy and demanding. The TV in the living room could use a little investigating, but that feels too lazy teenager. 

He finally decides to join Eames on the deck where he's watching the fireflies flit around in the dimming sun. The lake is a pink-purple sheet of glass, still but for the low wake of the occasional pontoon boat returning to dock. Once outside, Arthur can hear frogs accompanying the crickets and a coyote howling in the distance, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Eames chuckles low from the shadows, the whites of his eyes eerily bright. "You won't have to worry about them."

"Them?"

"There are a few, yeah. But the lake's too populated, they tend to stay away. I have a shotgun, though, just in case. Not that I've ever had to use it." He pauses, then adds, "Here, anyway."

Arthur quirks an eyebrow, prompting Eames to explain further, but he's facing away from Arthur, opening the grill and flipping the steaks. When he closes it, Eames is quiet again, arms folded across his broad chest, tongs tucked in the crook of his elbow. Arthur lets him have his silence.

With his back against the wall, Arthur closes his eyes and focuses on the night sounds, can pick out the blue jay screeches from the trilling chickadees finishing up their meals before it's the owl's turn to reign. Despite living in the city with only traffic noise for a lullaby, Arthur finds himself soothed, even manages to doze for a few minutes. Eames taps him on the arm as he walks by, the steaks on a plate in one hand, two bundles of foil in the other. Arthur gets the door for him, easily catching the tongs when they fall from where they're tucked under Eames' arm.

After setting the food down, one foil-wrapped mystery for each plate, Eames gets a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and two glasses from an overhead cabinet. Arthur watches it all in rapt attention, making sure to get the lay of the land as quickly as possible so he isn't asking Eames inane questions every five minutes.

Eames motions for them both to sit down, and gestures toward the food. "You should know I'm not used to cooking for other people, so you'll have to bear with me."

Arthur digs into the salad first, heaping two huge scoops onto his plate. "As long as you don't ask me to help with anything more than chopping and dicing, I can handle anything."

"Not a chef?" Eames asks, adding a little sugar to his tea. Arthur does the same.

"I'm good with my hands, uh, but not in that capacity." Arthur blushes a little at the innuendo and doesn't look at Eames to see if he notices. "My sisters were only too happy to do it, anyway."

Eames nods and smiles, "Mine too, but our cook made sure everybody learned, so..." He shrugs, unwraps the foil and reveals a baked potato. "Turned out to be a good thing, I suppose."

Arthur cuts into his steak, the knife slicing through it like butter. He nods and smiles at Eames, indicating he likes it, then tucks into his potato, adding butter, sour cream, and pepper. They eat for awhile in silence, Arthur stealing glances at Eames when he thinks Eames isn't looking. Gets the tingly feeling in his scalp that maybe Eames is doing the same.

After long minutes, when Arthur is chewing around a mouthful of salad, Eames clears his throat and sets his fork down. "So, Arthur." He pauses to let Arthur swallow. "Care to tell me more about yourself?"

Arthur's eyebrows arch. "Like what?"

"I dunno," he shrug, gesturing vaguely with a hand that Arthur can't keep his eyes off of. "What you like, what you do? That sort of thing."

Arthur smirks. "Small talk, then?" he asks, even though his mind traitorously whispers _first date talk_. Eames leans forward, elbows on the table, and nods. Arthur mimics the movement and ticks each point off on his fingers. "Well, I'm a Capricorn. I like long walks on the beach, organization, and books. I dislike assholes, global warming, and being treated like I'm five. My favorite movie is _Notorious_ or _The Empire Strikes Back_ , depending on the day. I like music, any music." He pauses to think. "My turn-offs include narcissism, hairy knuckles and too much tongue. My turn-ons are cuddlers, intelligence, and a good cologne." 

He gasps a little after he says the last part, realizing too late that he's basically outed himself to a virtual stranger.

Eames doesn't seem to register it, though. Just grins and shakes his head, drops his gaze to his plate to mop up the last of his potato with a piece of steak. "Right. So, on a scale of one to ten, how happy are you to be here?"

Arthur slants him a look through thick lashes. "About a four," he answers honestly. "Which is up from the one I was feeling all the way down here."

"Oh?" Eames leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Yeah, well, I knew the house and the lake would be gorgeous and peaceful. But you." Arthur shrugs one shoulder, not looking at Eames as he continues, "I pictured you more Dick Cheney, less Matt Damon." He tries to keep a straight face, but is sure the slight quirk of his mouth deepens the dimple on one side, giving him away.

Eames laughs then, a loud, full sound that has him tipping his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. Arthur smiles wide, too, gaze stuck on the bounce of Eames' Adam's apple, the dull glow of the skin there. Arthur wants to lick it, see how salty Eames tastes. He settles for licking his own lips instead. It isn't anywhere near the same, he's sure.

He's still smiling as Eames quiets, one hand wiping at his eyes. It freezes mid-swipe -- Eames' whole _body_ freezes -- and he's looking at Arthur's face, eyes wide, mouth slack. 

Arthur frowns and wipes at his cheek. "What is it? Do I have potato on my face?"

"No, I..." Eames clears his throat and his voice strengthens. He points a finger at his own cheek. "The dimples. They make you look sinfully young."

"Oh, yeah. The dimples." Arthur drops his eyes as he feels the blush spread, can only imagine how red he must look. The dimples that everybody adores are often more trouble than they're worth. Arthur _still_ gets carded sometimes when he tries to rent an R-rated movie. It's kinda ridiculous.

Finally, he looks up and Eames is still staring at him, his eyes soft and fond. "I didn't mean anything by it, Arthur. I rather like them, actually."

Arthur can't stop the smile this time, ducks his head so Eames won't see the heat in his cheeks. "Yeah, well," his shoulder lifts and falls, "It's not like I can do anything about them, anyway." Eames hums in agreement, and they both fall silent, Arthur crunching on the last of his salad.

They remain that way, in a half-awkward silence, until Arthur finishes. Arthur helps to clear the table, Eames pointing out where all the condiments belong, and Arthur elects to dry the dishes as Eames washes. 

Arthur is leaning against the counter, towel in one hand, eyes unseeing when Eames speaks again. "What would you be doing?"

Arthur stills, confused. "What?"

"If you weren't here, what would you be doing?"

"Oh, right." Arthur smiles, a little sad, though not as much as before. "I'd be in Rehoboth Beach with my friends, doing what teenagers do best: getting drunk and having sex." The having sex part may be a lie, but Arthur figures Eames doesn't need to know that.

Eames grins at him from over his shoulder. "Your mum made you leave a beautiful girl behind?"

Arthur barks a laugh. "Not exactly."

"A strapping young lad, then?" he teases with a wink. But his shoulders are stiff, Arthur can see, and his hand slows on the plate it's scrubbing.

Arthur's voice is softer as he says, "No, not one of those either." He hides a smile behind his hand when Eames relaxes and nods, muttering _of bloody course_ under his breath.

With just a few dishes left, they finish in silence, and Arthur follows him into the living room, unsure where things go from here. Eames makes a beeline for the television and Arthur slows, interested to see what Eames plans to watch. Instead of a remote, Eames is fiddling with some cords, and Arthur smirks as he realizes what they're for. "An Xbox? Really?"

"It helps get the creative juices flowing," Eames says.

He seems sincere, but Arthur holds his gaze to see if Eames will break. He doesn't.

"What game are you playing?" Arthur asks eventually, nearing Eames and the knot he's fighting with. Arthur places a hand on Eames' arm and takes over, easily fixing the tangled mess. 

"Call of Duty. Do you play?"

Arthur nods. "A little. My friend, Yusuf? We play sometimes."

Eames gestures for Arthur to sit next to him on the sofa. "Well, let's get on, then!"

It's fun playing with him, Arthur finds. Other than the fact that he accidentally kills Arthur more than once because he's not used to playing with others, Eames isn't afraid of trading trash talk with Arthur; Yusuf was always far more into the strategizing part of the game to actually have fun.

After a couple of hours, Eames is tired of Arthur's superiority, so he starts FIFA soccer 11, which Arthur loses handily over and over again. He doesn't last more than an hour and tries to head upstairs for bed then, but Eames talks him into one more game, one where they're both on even footing.

Arthur arches a brow when Eames suggests Ms Pac-man and Eames blushes. It's horribly endearing and Arthur loves it. 

"It's my sister's," Eames explains, slipping the disc into the console. "Home away from home, remember?" Arthur chuckles but doesn't tease, doesn't comment either on how hard Eames concentrates, or by how wide a margin he beats Arthur. 

They're both yawning wide when Arthur realizes it's after midnight, and he suddenly feels impossibly tired. He helps Eames clean up the game and their tea glasses, and says good night to Eames from the bottom of the stairs.

"Good night, love," Eames shoots back, casual and warm, but Arthur sees his hand stutter at the light switch. 

Arthur doesn't say a word, is desperate not to react in any way, even though he can feel the weight of Eames' gaze on him all the way up the stairs. It's not until he rounds the corner and strips down, opens the windows wide and crawls under the thick covers that he smiles to himself, dimples and all.


	2. Chapter 2

The world outside Arthur's window seems to be in full swing when the alarm on his phone goes off. He hits the snooze, as usual, and lets himself drift for the five minutes, the birds outside a pleasant background noise to his thoughts of the night before.

It hadn't been as awkward as it could've been, he decides. Meeting and basically moving in with a complete stranger for three months not being the typical college student's summer experience. Eames' age helps, of course. Even though they are a healthy fourteen years apart, they still have just enough common experiences and cultural knowledge to carry on a conversation with only the bare minimum of strained silences.

The area isn't bad, either. At first, getting into bed and hearing nothing but crickets had been a little disconcerting. Arthur was sure he'd need the sounds of a city surrounding him to be lulled into sleep. He'd flopped around a little bit at first, trying to find the sweet spot. But once he did, he slipped right to sleep. And waking up without the roar and screech of city garbage trucks was a nice change of pace, too.

He rolls over to look out the windows, the morning sky lit up in pale pinks and yellows. A flock of ducks comes in from one side, and disappears beyond the sill of the windows, presumably landing on the lake for some breakfast and a bath. The peace is nice, and Arthur loves the feeling of breathing in the fresh air when he takes a deep breath.

Finally, Arthur throws the blankets back and sits up, the cool air raising goose bumps on his skin. From here, he can see the ducks on the water, tiny black specks bobbing on the glittering, golden surface. Scratching his stomach, he approaches the window and studies the landscape, taking in the vegetable garden he'd found Eames working in yesterday. He can't pick out the specific plants, but guesses there are tomatoes and peppers. And the tentative vines in between them a cucumber or other squash. 

The rest of the yard is mostly a natural landscape. There are gardens marked off, but it looks a little slapdash, like Eames threw all the plants in the air and planted them where they landed. Arthur's fingers itch to clean it up, make it neater and more structured. He lets it go for now, though, his gaze falling back to the lake.

A seawall stretches for as far as he can see. He figures it probably runs along the entire lake, a convenient and picturesque walking path for tourists and residents alike. It looks good for jogging, too, if a little more meandering than Arthur prefers for his daily run. It's still better than running on the narrow and deserted county roads he wound through to get here.

After a quick wash up in the bathroom, Arthur digs out his favorite pair of running shorts and an old Annapolis Panthers t-shirt from the bureau. They've both seen better days, the hems of the red shorts fraying and the t-shirt worn thin and a little small, but they're comfortable and remind him of home. Grabbing his sneakers from the closet, he makes his way down the stairs, keeping as quiet as possible in his stocking feet. He's almost out the back door when Eames emerges from the hallway and startles him.

"Running away already?"

Arthur shrugs and ducks his head to hide his grin. "You know how it is. Feed a guy delicious food, let him play a little Xbox, then give him a decadent bed to sleep in... Why would he want to stick around?"

Eames approaches him wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a white, sleeveless undershirt, which shows off more tattoos than it hides. "Going out for a jog, then?" Arthur nods. "Great minds. I was about to do the same. I could show you around a little, tell you who to avoid, yeah?"

He bends over to re-tie one of his shoes and Arthur swallows hard, eyes roaming over all the exposed skin. It's going to be a distraction, he's sure, but he also needs to get the lay of the land as quickly as possible so he's not too dependent on Eames. It's a harder choice to make than it should be. 

"Yeah," he sighs, turning away before Eames stands up. "Ok."

: : :

Jogging with Eames is not as hard as it could be. Arthur shortens his strides to help stay on pace with him, and Eames seems to know how to maintain a proper distance so they aren't getting tangled up in each other. He also doesn't try to talk much, other than to point out the things he feels Arthur should know, and Arthur appreciates that, too.

As they jog, Arthur learns a little bit about his new neighbors; Mrs. Braddock the ass pincher and Mr. Jenkins' dog, Killer, the rottweiler who is all bark and no bite. The Radigans three doors down from Eames with the two nightmarish brats and Dr. Wallace who retired to the lake after his wife passed away.

In between each house, Eames is quiet. Life around the lake is, too, and Arthur revels in it. It's not much different from his cross-country track meets, only the sea wall is more stable terrain, he doesn't have to worry about tree branches smacking him in the face, and there isn't a pack of high schoolers hot on his heels. Arthur counts all the differences as wins.

Eames starts down-shifting, and Arthur along with him, when a large playground comes into view. It's empty this early in the morning, but Arthur can imagine it teeming with shrieking children and harried parents. There's a water fountain that Arthur makes use of, then turns to watch the ducks waddle about while Eames gets a drink, too.

"This is where I usually head back," Eames says, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his mouth. Arthur's eyes dip at the glimpse of skin, the sliver of black ink peeking out. His fingers twitch, wanting to skim over the skin, push the shirt up and memorize the tattoo. He studies the wall ahead of them, instead. "I think I'll stick around here. Do some sprints on the straight-away." He motions to a spot further along and Eames turns to look. When he looks back, he's squinting at Arthur, his lips red and pursed. Arthur wants to suck at one and see if it's really as soft as it looks.

Eames smirks. "Think you can find your way home?" 

Arthur gives him a dark look, his lips a thin, firm line.

"Alright, alright." Eames chuckles. "Just don't hurt yourself. The people around here are more likely to push you in the water than save you." He gives Arthur a wink and a backhand slap on the hip. "See you at the house!"

Arthur lets himself watch Eames jog away, his exposed skin glistening with sweat. The way his tattoos shift with the pumping of his arms is hypnotic, and it isn't until a duckling waddles over and starts pecking at his shoelaces that Arthur snaps out of it.

He jogs over to the straight away and does ten back-and-forths, just to get his heart rate up. It gets him sweaty too, making his t-shirt cling to his skin. He pulls it off and tucks it into the waistband of his shorts, at the small of his back. The slight lake breeze feels good on his over-heated skin as he sets of for Eames' house at his normal pace.

With his long legs eating up the ground like it's nothing, it doesn't take long for Eames to come into view. Eames, too, is shirtless, the white material of his t-shirt hanging out of his shorts, flapping at his side. Arthur's feet stutter at the sight, and he slows down automatically to enjoy the view. Arthur supposes he should be taking in the beauty of the lake before everything comes awake, but he just can't tear his eyes away from all that skin, the way it glides effortlessly over the muscles of Eames' back. 

Well, until his gaze slides down to Eames' ass, the nylon material of his shorts sweat-drenched and clinging. Arthur squints and feels a sharp stab of want in his gut. There's no jiggle there, only sleek, taut muscles that beg for Arthur's mouth, his teeth. Saliva pools under his tongue at the thought of it.

Arthur is so enthralled, he misses a crack in the wall and almost faceplants on the cement. _So much for stable terrain_. He picks his pace back up again, and passes Eames easily, taking away temptation.

Ten minutes later, Eames' house is looming in the distance, and Arthur slows down automatically. His arms and legs and lungs are burning, but he revels in it, uses his shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He faces the lake to do his stretches, his arms burning even more when he reaches above his head and rolls up onto his toes, stretching both the biceps and his calves.

Arthur is just finishing up his routine as Eames comes into view. The broad shape of him looks oddly graceful from this distance. Arthur turns away before Eames gets too close, eyes the lake so it doesn't look like he's been ogling Eames. He stops just short of running into Arthur, bare chest heaving as it works hard for fresh oxygen. Arthur watches from the corner of his eye, slightly leaning into Eames' warmth.

They're both quiet for long moments, Eames stretching when he finally gets his breath back, and then Arthur's toeing off his shoes and socks, and drops his shirt on top of them. "We can swim in this lake, right?"

"Yes, but I--"

Arthur's running before Eames finishes saying yes, and cannonballs into the lake with no finesse whatsoever. The second he's in, he's struggling back out, the water colder than he'd expected. "Jesus _fuck_ that's cold!" he sputters, flailing his arms to right himself. He glares at Eames above him, bent over and laughing so hard he can't even talk. With one arm straightened, he tries to make a wave of water, high enough to drench Eames, but it doesn't work. The wall is too high and Eames is just out of reach.

Now that Arthur's in, pride keeps him from getting out so soon. Pride and the fact that the more he moves, the more accustomed to the temperature he becomes. He dog-paddles away from the wall, giving himself enough space so that if his laps are crooked, he won't be scraping concrete, and treads water. By the time Arthur is comfortable, Eames has collapsed onto a sunny patch of grass and is leaning back on his elbows, feet flat on the ground. The sunlight glints off his sweaty skin, distorting the tattoos on his chest and he's run a hand through his hair several times, so it's all damp with sweat and slicked flat against his scalp. Arthur wants to settle in his lap and mess it all up again. Instead, he sighs and starts swimming.

He's not an avid swimmer, but with all of his neighbors having pools, he knows the basics, and his long arms and legs help him slice through the water with relative ease. Each lap gets a twenty-five count before he turns back, so he doesn't get far on each one, but he wants to stay out of the way of the fishing boats in the no-wake zone, so it works. He doesn't keep track of how many he does, just stops when his arms and legs start to feel like jello. 

The ladder up the wall is old and rusty in spots, and Arthur would really like to hustle his way up, but his limbs are tired and his shorts feel disproportionately heavy now that they're wet. Each rung seems miles away, and when he finally surfaces, he feels like he's going to fall over. It's a feeling he enjoys, despite the exhaustion. It signals a job well done, which is always Arthur's main goal. He bends over for one last stretch of his back, palms flat on the concrete in front of him, then laces his fingers together and reaches up over his head again, rolling up on his toes. It makes him feel longer than he is, doing this stretch. 

Arthur pivots a little, so he can see Eames out of the corner of his eye, and his chest flares when he realizes Eames is staring at him. He reaches out even farther, tries to get higher on his toes, too, just too see how Eames reacts, when a healthy gust of wind sends a chill over his ass and up his spine. His stretch collapses in an instant, his hands falling to the waistband of his shorts, which are just barely clinging to the slight flare of his hips. There's a glimpse of coarse, dark hair as he looks down and his face burns white hot. Yanking his shorts back into place, he mumbles an apology and stumbles over to the pile of stuff he left on the wall. He can barely get out, "See you back at the house," as he snatches his things up, and has to force himself not to run back to the house, embarrassment overriding his exhaustion.

Later, in the shower, with one hand flat on the wall and the other fisted tight around his cock, Arthur jerks off to the memory of all that skin and the way Eames watched him with dark, hooded eyes.

: : :

During breakfast, Arthur decides he wants to go into town to explore, now that life has picked up around the lake and all of the shops are open for the season. He also wants to do a little grocery shopping, after having poked around in Eames' cupboards for something to eat. It'll show Eames that Arthur doesn't plan on mooching off him, plus he figures he'll run into a few of the lake's residents at the same time. He pokes his head into Eames' office to let him know he's leaving, but all he finds is an empty room. His curiosity gets the better of him and he steps inside to investigate.

The outside wall, like all of the rest of the rooms in the house, is lined with windows offering a spectacular view of the lake. On that wall sits a massive mahogany desk with short piles of papers scattered about. Arthur isn't nosy enough to see what's written on them; they'll get to that subject eventually, and Arthur would rather hear it from Eames than snoop for information. The other three walls are lined with matching mahogany bookcases, stuffed to the gills with books of every size and color. Arthur scans some of the spines, smiling at titles like The Art of War and Freakonomics, frowning at The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and a well-worn copy of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal.

Arthur turns to the middle of the room and the two massive leather sofas that sit there facing each other, a round coffee table set between them. It's looks cozy in a way nothing else in the house does, which is saying something because a cabin in the woods is supposed to be cozy by sheer definition. But Arthur can imagine spending a lot of time in here, the warm glow of the floor lamp just over his shoulder, reading for hours on end. Or, even better, editing his first book with his feet propped up on the table, Eames sitting on the opposite sofa, trying to distract Arthur by nudging at his feet. 

"Getting a little ahead of yourself, Arthur?" he says to himself, chuckling. 

"What's so funny?" Arthur spins to find Eames leaning against the door jamb. He's in a threadbare t-shirt and scuffed up jeans, feet bare. A smudge of grease mars his cheek and his hands are stained, too. It's a miracle, really, that Eames' shirt -- claiming to be property of Warner Bros -- isn't irreparably damaged as well. 

For all of Arthur's fastidiousness, he shouldn't find it as sexy as he does. And he wonders, distantly, how long it'll take him to get over wanting to jump Eames every five minutes.

"What? I-- Nothing. I was looking for you." He watches Eames push off the wall with his shoulder and backs up on instinct, not wanting to get any grease on his own clothes. 

Eames notices the movement and smirks, pulls a shoddy towel from his back pocket and uses it to try to wipe his hands off. "And that's funny?"

Arthur frowns. "No, nothing's funny. It doesn't matter." He clears his throat and waves a hand at the bookshelves around him, desperate to change the subject. "Nice collection."

Eames looks it over, eyes fond. "I like to think it is."

"No system, though."

"Don't really need one." He shrugs, skimming his fingers over the nearest shelf.

Arthur frowns a little. "Then how am I supposed to find what I'm looking for?"

Eames chuckles and plucks a book from the shelf. It's Christine by Stephen King. He thumbs through the pages, then hands it to Arthur, his fingertips brushing over Arthur's as he pulls his hand away. "Your eyes, Arthur. All you have to do is look and you'll find something."

Arthur shakes his head, tries to scowl, and has to duck his head so Eames won't catch sight of his dimples. When he gets himself under control, he waves his free hand over the shelves and asks, "Where are yours?"

Lips pursed, Eames peruses the shelves. Arthur watches Eames' finger tap against his lips until he finds what he's looking for. He hands it to Arthur, taking back Christine and slipping it into the slot his own book had just occupied. "Here's my first. Start with the worst and work your way up."

Arthur doesn't look up from the back when he asks, "Fantasy?" He misses Eames' slightly offended look.

"Did nobody tell you a thing about me?!"

Arthur hums and looks up, confused. "Oh, no I-- Yes, I knew you were a fantasy author. I did research you, I'm not stupid. It must've slipped my mind."

"You researched me?" Eames purrs, leering. Arthur shouldn't find the cockiness hot.

He lifts and drops one shoulder. "I like to be prepared. You grew up outside of London, attended university in Paris, where you were published for the first time. Five books later, all of them best sellers, and here you are, in the wilds of Virginia." He scratches the back of his neck, the hand holding the book hanging limp at his side. "Come to think of it, why _are_ you living here in the wilds of Virginia?"

"Doesn't matter," Eames says, waving away the question. "All that information only tells you _what_ I am, not who. Is there nothing else you know?"

"All I was told is that our aunts are good friends."

"Sister, actually." Arthur arches a brow at him and Eames clarifies. "My sister, your aunt.

Arthur shrugs. "Sister, aunt, whatever. They went to school together and now they work together." He looks up then, and feels a little bad for how insulted Eames looks. "Does it really matter? It's not your writing technique I'm here for."

Eames crosses his arms over his chest and his eyes narrow, pinning Arthur in place like some exotic butterfly specimen. "Just what _are_ you here for then?"

When Arthur swallows, it sounds loud in his own ears. He hopes it's just his imagination. He tries for nonchalant as he says, "Networking. And to get away from my sisters."

Eames places a flat palm over his own chest, and Arthur winces at the thought of the greasy fingerprints it'll leave behind. "Arthur, Arthur." He shakes his head. "You wound me."

"It's the truth, though, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes. Of course it doesn't matter that I write fantasy and you're a heathen." He rolls his eyes. "It just narrows down topics of conversation. Pity."

Arthur's smile is more than a little patronizing, he's sure. "I think we'll get by. There's always Call of Duty."

"And Ms. Pac-man," Eames adds, grinning.

"And jogging." Eames nods, and they both lock eyes. Arthur's chest feels heavy with the memory of Eames' back and legs working. The sun making the sweat on his skin glisten. Blue eyes gone dark with intent. 

Eames' eyes flare for an instant, and then he's clearing his throat and turning away from Arthur. "You said you were looking for me?"

"I...uh, yeah." He hooks a hand around his neck and turns away. "I was going to head into town, do some of grocery shopping, a little exploring. I wanted to see if you needed anything while I'm out."

"Oh. That reminds me." Eames approaches the desk and opens the slim middle drawer, plucks something out and turns to Arthur, a bit of brass glinting from his fingers. "I need to give you this, just in case."

Arthur stares at the key, mouth working open and shut. Finally gets out, "I doubt I'll be needing to get in your house when you're not in it."

Eames shrugs. "You never know. Just-- Take it. Just in case." 

He tugs Arthur's hand open and presses the key into his palm. It's warm from Eames' grip and Arthur closes his fist around it a little tighter than necessary. There is a smudge of grease at the base of his thumb from Eames, and Arthur finds it difficult to look away from it. "Yeah, okay. Thanks." His voice is thick and he tries to swallow around the odd lump in his throat, but doesn't quite manage. "So, do you need anything?" he finally gets out, not looking up.

"Actually, how about I go with you? I could stand to get out of the house, pick up a few things. I could help with introductions, too."

"As long as I get to drive."

Eames grin is wide. "Do I sense a little control freak in you, Arthur?"

"No," he answers with a small scowl. "It just helps me get to know the area. Can't depend on you to drive me everywhere."

"Makes sense," Eames says, nodding. Arthur watches him reach for a set of keys then stop. Eames turns his hand palm up and he laughs a little, shows Arthur his grease-smudged hands as if Eames is just realizing he's dirty for the first time. "Let me just wash up. Meet you outside?" He starts stripping his shirt off just before he walks out the door, and Arthur waits for a count of ten before following. He doesn't think about why he still has Eames' book in his hand when he leaves.

: : :

Arthur's sitting in his car in the driveway just outside the door when Eames finally emerges, face and hands freshly scrubbed, wearing the same ripped jeans and a new shirt. He's also wearing a pair of aviators, and Arthur discovers yet another new kink he didn't know he had. Arthur hadn't planned on this summer being one long masturbatory marathon, but with the way things are heading, he's going to need to invest in an obscene amount of lube. Or strip the skin off his cock.

He makes a note to pick up more lube at the store. If he can escape Eames for five minutes.

Eames walks right past his car at first, heading for the garage, and Arthur honks his horn. It startles Eames and he spins, mouth agape when he sees Arthur's tiny Smart Car parked in the shade. He approaches slowly, looking from one end to the other and back again which, Arthur admits, is not that far of a distance.

He rests one arm above the passenger side window and leans down to look at Arthur, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Aren't you a little old for Match Box cars?"

Arthur bristles. "It's a Smart Car. I'm the only one drives it, and it more than meets my vehicular needs."

"Vehicular?" Eames parrots, nearly laughing.

"Yes, vehicular. Would you just get in already?" Arthur leans over to open the door for him and Eames steps back with a flourish. 

He sticks his head in the car one more time, looking over the backseat, and flops down in the seat with an 'oof.' "You realize I weigh more than this car does?" 

Arthur quietly murmurs, "Not bloody likely." He notices his slip of the tongue too late, after they've pulled out onto the main road, and tries to cover by turning the radio louder. 

Eames catches it anyway and his whole face lights up. "Am I rubbing off on you already?" Arthur's cheeks burn. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Eames rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

There's no traffic around them, so Arthur turns to Eames, brow arched. "What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

"Relax Arthur, I only mean we need to loosen you up a little." He drops his hand onto Arthur's knee, his palm hot even through the fabric of his pants, and Arthur stiffens. "See what I mean?" He shakes the leg a little, long enough for Arthur's tension to ease. The skin feels too cold after Eames takes his hand back.

He lets out a low, quiet breath as Eames continues. "I mean, do you even own a t-shirt?" 

Arthur looks down at his clothes and scoffs. "What does my wardrobe have to do with anything?

"Well." Eames gives him one long look up and down. Arthur side-eyes him and sees Eames' tongue slip out to wet his lips. "I admit I don't know many teenagers, but I imagine they don't all dress like this." 

"There's nothing wrong with the way I dress," Arthur says, scowling.

"I'm not saying there is, Arthur. In fact, you look quite splendid. I'm just saying how many of your mates would go grocery shopping wearing a pink sweatshirt over an oxford and a pair of trousers?" He squints and leans in, getting a better look at Arthur's shoes. "Are those top-siders?"

Arthur flushes. "These are cargo pants, thank you. And is it so wrong to want to look nice?"

"Tailored cargo pants, then."

"Still cargo pants." 

"Be that as it may, you would have been fine in jeans and a t-shirt. There is nobody around here you need to impress. Least of all me."

Silently, Arthur disagrees. "I'm not trying to impress anybody. I just prefer not to look like a slob. That's acceptable, right? Part of making myself at home?"

"Yes, fine. I take it back. You don't need to loosen up." He settles back into his seat, face turned to the window, and Arthur finds it hard not stare at his profile. The lack of traffic on the back country road doesn't help matters. 

They manage in silence for awhile, the quiet broken every so often by the rustle of Eames' clothes as he fidgets in his seat. Arthur tries to ignore it, but in the closeness of the car, Eames is _right there_ and his arm keeps brushing against Arthur's and it's more than a little maddening.

Finally, Arthur snaps. "Would you sit still?!"

Eames sighs and thumps his head against the seat back. "I don't see why you couldn't have driven my car this one time. I'm fairly confident you're responsible enough for it."

"I am, but you don't know me near well enough to know that." He pauses, then adds, "And there's nothing wrong with my car. It's more energy efficient."

Eames is again twisting in his seat to scan the back. All six feet of it. "Are you sure there's going to be enough room for the groceries?"

"We're buying for two, Mr. Eames. Not an army."

"Just Eames, thank you," Eames says, voice flat. “Mr. Eames is my father. Actually, he's Dr. Eames.” He frowns, glances at the back again, then at the clear blue sky through the window and sighs. "Such a pity, wasting this brilliant day in a car with a roof."

"Eames." Arthur warns, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel to keep from thumping Eames on the thigh.

It's another twenty minutes of Eames fidgeting and muttering under his breath, and Arthur doing everything he can not to pull over and make Eames walk before they get to the store. In the parking lot, Arthur stands outside the car for a minute, breathing deep. Even here, closer to civilization, the air is crisp and clear. A little heavy with moisture from the lake, but not in an oppressive way. Eames heads for the store, and Arthur follows, taking in the little bit he can see of the town. 

It's quaint; for as much as Arthur hates that word, it fits. The store fronts are aged and homey, each one unique and quiet in their presence. In between them are large patches of grass dotted with trees and flowers. Squirrels and birds flit everywhere, too, seemingly unafraid of the people walking by. Behind the store, the lake glitters blue, a mere sliver of it visible through the tree trunks.

The grocery store itself is just as worn-looking as all the other buildings, the wooden planks faded to a patchy pale brown. A sign hangs above the door, quiet and unassuming. No neon lights advertising twenty-four hour service or ice cold Coors Light. Arthur's starting to consider the idea that he won't be finding anything organic in here, and he wilts slightly.

Which is probably why Eames is standing just inside the door, a patronizing sort of smile on his face. "We're not back country hicks, Arthur. You'll find more than just eggs and milk and lard here."

"Actually, I'm more afraid they won't have any Jägermeister. It's the only thing that'll give me a decent buzz." He brushes past Eames, struggling to keep a straight face, and grabs a cart. As he waits for Eames to catch up, Arthur takes in the rest of the store to get the lay of the land.

It looks just as sleek and stylish as the new Whole Foods he's been shopping at. At the front of the store, the smell of fresh bread hangs heavy in the air and the produce department is especially vibrant and colorful, as if someone polished each individual piece to a high shine. Beyond that, the meat cases gleam in the warm lighting. From here, Arthur can see an intricate meat and cheese platter on display.

"See anything you like?" a voice purrs, warm and silky, against his ear. There's a heavy hand at the small of his back, too, so that when he turns to look, Eames' face is only a breath away. From this close, Arthur can see the flecks of midnight blue in Eames' eyes, count each individual eyelash and measure their length, feel Eames' breath, damp and cool, gust against the corner of his own mouth.

He licks his lips and Eames' eyes drop to track the movement. His pupils dilate, wide and dark; his breath hitches. His lips twitch, too, and, for one crazy moment, Arthur thinks (hopes) Eames is going to lean in and kiss him. But then Eames blinks, drags his gaze back up to meet Arthur's, and he's taking a step back. Arthur immediately misses Eames' warmth, the weight of the hand on his back.

"Where to first, then?" Eames asks, not looking at Arthur as he tries to take control of the cart.

Arthur pulls a list from his pocket so that he has something to look at other than Eames' thick, capable fingers wrapped around the handle. "I'm here mostly for fruits and vegetables. Some non-perishables, too." He flips the list over, checking to make sure he doesn't miss anything, even though he only wrote it an hour before and knows exactly what he wants without it. "What proteins were you thinking of getting?"

The cart comes to a sudden stop and Arthur lets out a little 'oof' when it catches him in the stomach. He looks at Eames, annoyed. "What?"

Eames glances from Arthur to the list and back again, and chuckles. "You are _not_ a real boy!"

If it were anyone else, Arthur might be offended. Insulted even. But there's no malice in Eames' eyes. Only a soft fondness. One corner of his mouth quirks when Arthur says, "I guess that makes you Geppetto, then."

"Pet names already Arthur?" he teases, winking. "It's not the best I've ever heard, but I've certainly been called worse. It'll do, darling." 

A warmth blooms in his chest that makes him feel airy, light. His hand twitches, wanting to press down on it, as if he doesn't he'll float away. Instead, he wraps long fingers around the cart handle and watches Eames grab a second.

"I think we'd work better on our own, yeah?" He points to the hand not clutching at the shopping cart. "I don't do lists."

"Why don't we split up and meet back at the registers in thirty minutes?"

Eames considers it, then says, "Better make it forty-five, I like to take my time. I don't live life by lists."

"Fine," Arthur huffs. "Forty-five minutes."

Arthur's not surprised when he shows up five minutes later than planned and Eames still isn't there. It makes it easier to get through paying for his groceries. At least he doesn't have to wait too long for Eames to appear. He gives Arthur's bags a disapproving look.

"I would've paid for that."

Arthur shrugs. "I planned on paying my own way, anyway. I'm a guest. And I have very specific tastes." He smiles to prove it really is no big deal. 

While the checker scans Eames items, he takes a peek at Arthur's groceries.

"Stone rolled oats, spinach pasta, organic sauce. Arthur, don't you know how to have _any_ fun?"

Arthur digs out a pack of sugar-free organic cranberry muffins. "For the occasional dessert."

Eames chuckles and motions toward the coconut cream cake on the conveyor belt. "You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling." 

Arthur sighs, shaking his head, and walks away to prevent Eames from seeing the flicker of his dimples.

After Eames is all rung up, Arthur heads for the exit, but realizes almost too late that Eames isn't following behind. Arthur turns to find him talking to an older gentleman, shorter than Eames and kind-looking. They're both chuckling, then the man walks away and Eames catches Arthur's eye, tips his head toward the back of the store.

"Harry said we could leave our groceries in the cooler. Get some time in learning the town, yeah? Shake some hands, kiss some babies?"

Arthur grimaces. "I am _not_ kissing any babies."

: : :

Everything is just as idyllic as it looked to Arthur when he and his mom were first here for spring break. The only difference is all the stores are open now and there are many more people strolling along the sidewalks, more shrieking children playing in the playgrounds scattered about. It's not wholly unlike Arthur's neighborhood back home, everybody knowing everybody else, but there are far less cars about. More people riding bikes or roller blading. And it feels like everybody has at least one dog they're trying to lead around.

The wonderful thing is, shopkeepers don't mind the mess. There aren't any "no dogs allowed" or "no kids allowed" signs in the windows. No signs barring anything, period. It feels too idyllic, almost. Like time has passed this place by, that people still leave their doors unlocked, safe in the knowledge that nobody and nothing would ever try to hurt them.

As they stroll, Arthur meets the neighbors Eames had told him about during their run. Mrs. Braddock is a sweet-looking elderly woman who could pass for Dr. Ruth. She fawns over Eames and is more than welcoming to Arthur, and he starts to have his doubts about Eames' claims that she'll molest anything with a penis. When she turns to leave, though, her nails are sharp on Arthur's ass, even through his pants, and he yelps, spinning around. She gives him a saucy wink, and he vows never to leave his rear unprotected when she's around.

He also meets an exasperated Ellie Radigan and her two children, Damien and Lucifer (technically, David and Logan, but Arthur's pretty sure Eames' nicknames are more appropriate) on his way into the bookstore. The boys are running wild through the children's section, screaming about something Arthur can't make out, and Ellie and the store employee are desperately trying to wrangle them. Only the threat of no dessert after dinner gets them to freeze in their tracks. They peer up at Arthur, eyes glinting. He can imagine what they're thinking, and gives them what he hopes is his most powerful glare, complete with arched brow. They both pale slightly, but the moment is ruined when Eames pats them on the head. 

"Don't mind him, boys. He's just a giant pussy cat." He looks at Arthur and winks, then leans in closer and stage whispers, "He secretly loves kids. Go on, show him the reading corner."

The next thing Arthur knows, his arms are nearly yanked out of their sockets and he's being dragged to a quiet, colorful corner of the shop and shoved into a bean bag chair. They each grab a book and order him to read them aloud. After another two books, Ellie collects the boys, looking far less harried, and Arthur suddenly understands what Eames had been up to, doesn't so much mind he's spent the last forty-five minutes with two sweaty, stinky boys plastered to his sides. Eames buys him a vanilla chai tea latté at the café for his troubles.

The last place they visit is the nursery where Arthur will be working for the summer. It's packed to overflowing with customers, winding their way amongst the haphazard rows of plants and trees and shrubs. Arthur's boss, Jason, comes out from a greenhouse, hands full with a flat of pampas grass, and makes a bee-line for Arthur and Eames. After a cursory greeting, Eames heads off for a look around, leaving Arthur and Jason to tour the grounds and meet his fellow employees. 

Over an hour later, Arthur's feeling rather confident about working for Jason and the nursery, and he finds Eames flirting with one of the other employees. A pathetic-looking plant is nestled in the crook of his arm, the leaves brown and wilted. Arthur waves good-bye to the departing employee before motioning to the plant and asking, "One charity case wasn't enough?"

Eames laughs. "I couldn't just leave it there, all sad-looking because all its mates had already been bought to beautify other yards." He studies it over again as they walk. "Besides, you never know what a little tender loving care will do. You should know that."

"Yes, yes I do."

: : :

Arthur gets one more day before he has to start working and even though he should take advantage of it and sleep in, the morning outside calls to him. As does the prospect of a jog with Eames and the endless miles of his tattooed skin.

He waits around the kitchen for half an hour, far longer than he probably should have, and is quite disappointed when Eames doesn't show up. Arthur tells himself that maybe it's just an off day for Eames. Everybody's allowed to have one, after all.

: : :

Once Arthur starts working, he almost forgets he lives with another person. Eames never does join him for another morning run, which frustrates Arthur both because he doesn't understand why, and because he cares in the first place. By the time he gets to work, though, he's too busy to dwell on it much, and he's almost forgotten it when he gets home and Eames is puttering about the kitchen fixing dinner.

Working at Garden of Eden is almost exactly like working at Ariadne's family's nursery back home. Other than the layout, which is far more natural and inviting, Arthur's duties vary from day to day. They start him off with easy tasks, watering the stock in the morning, helping customers find what they're looking for, and helping them load their purchases into their cars.

Once Arthur's boss figures out how capable he is, Arthur gets assigned to different crews for contract work; installing and maintaining landscapes for businesses and residents alike. As much as Arthur likes helping someone find the perfect plant for that hole in their garden, he prefers this side of the business. Whether it's trimming trees or digging holes, it's satisfyingly physical work that helps keep the muscles in his biceps and shoulders corded and lean rather than bulky.

Life at home gets easier, too, once he gets over the initial disappointment of Eames' absence during the morning run. After Arthur gets home and takes a shower, he'll usually join Eames in the kitchen to help with dinner. In between discussing the latest book Arthur's pilfered from Eames' collection, Eames tries to give Arthur a few cooking tips. They don't always stick, but Arthur still likes trying. 

He also enjoys the times when Eames leans in to take Arthur's hand, usually to get him to loosen his wrist as he's whisking, other times to get his undivided attention, laying warm, blunt fingers on Arthur's forearm or wrist. No matter what the reason, it always sends a little zing of pleasure straight to Arthur's cock, and he spends each night in bed thinking about the texture of Eames skin, how pink his lips are. Which usually leads to a quick and dirty jerk off before falling asleep. 

Arthur's never gone through lube so quickly in his life.

On his one day off for the week, he and Eames usually spend it loafing in and around the house. Sometimes, Eames joins Arthur for his regular swim, the one he takes to cool off after his jog. It usually degenerates to the two of them splashing and trying to dunk each other, as if they're teenagers trying to show off for the pretty girl in the bikini (or the hot boy in speedos, in Arthur's case). They climb out only after they're too tired to tread water anymore and fall to the grass in boneless heaps. 

In these quiet moments, with Eames laughing and smiling, Arthur can't stop himself from staring. The water clings to his eyelashes, making them stick together in sharp, inky spikes. It beads on his lips, pale and plump, and Arthur wants to kiss him. Wants to lick away the water and taste Eames underneath. His hands itch to glide over the glistening skin of his chest, palm over the light mat of hair and peaked nipples to get to the tattoos, each one of which he'll trace with his fingers. Later, his tongue.

He turns away before Eames opens his eyes, cock hardening, undeterred by the cold water they were just in. Arthur always leaves before Eames can get up, just in case, and gets off in the shower. He wonders how he can't be over this yet, how he's been around Eames for nearly three weeks and he still can't look at him without getting hard. Yes, he's eighteen still, but _some_ restraint wouldn't be a bad thing.

Of course, Eames doesn't always help, either. Arthur is sure it isn't intentional. Eames is thirty-two after all and, honestly, Arthur doesn't even know if he's gay or straight or possibly even asexual. He's sure that Eames' walking around shirtless seventy-five percent of the time is just his default state. And it is his home, after all, he should be allowed to live in it how he likes. But it's more than simply Eames' looks that spike Arthur's blood.

It's how he talks to Arthur like Arthur's an adult, an equal. He doesn't dote on him like his mother or sisters would, making sure Arthur takes a jacket with him when he goes out with the friends he's made at the nursery. He doesn't lecture Arthur if Arthur happens to grab a beer from the fridge instead of the pitcher of sweet tea. He lets Arthur make his own mistakes, but he's also there to help if Arthur wants it.

Beyond even that, though, there are times when Arthur thinks, maybe, there might be more to Eames' attention than just...guardian? Mentor? Friend? Sometimes, when they're cooking, his hand lingers a little too long on Arthur's waist, his back. Sometimes, he leans over Arthur's shoulder so his lips brush the shell of Arthur's ear, his voice silky smooth and buzzing over every last one of Arthur's nerves.

Sometimes, when they're debating (against) the merits of American Gods or why, despite the simplicity of them, the Harry Potter series has a place in literature's history, there's a heat in Eames' eyes that Arthur can't place. Doesn't want to hang his hopes on. 

Then there are the times when, no matter where they are or what they're doing, there's a gravity that pulls them together. Arthur will be upstairs, reading the second of Eames' books and savouring every word, and he'll get an itch at the base of his spine. Despite the fact that he's been curled up on the sofa in his room for the better part of an hour, the rain outside the perfect soundtrack, he immediately decides he needs a glass of tea and a cup of yogurt right now. 

And that, of course, will be the exact moment he'll find Eames at the back door, soaking wet, juggling a couple heads of lettuce and half a dozen of the early tomatoes, trying to figure out how to get the door open. Arthur will let him in, relieve him of his booty, and get him a towel for drying off. With no shame, Eames will strip down to his boxers right there in the kitchen, and Arthur will set about getting his snack, if only so Eames won't see the heat in his face. By then, the book he's been reading is forgotten and they end up spending a couple hours playing Xbox, at which Eames improves each time they play.

It even happens in his sleep one night, Arthur waking up quite suddenly for no reason he can discern in the silvery light of the moon. He heads downstairs, just in case it might've been Eames calling for help. But it's dark at the bottom of the stairs. Quiet, too. Since Arthur is already up, he makes his way to the kitchen for a glass of water, and that's when he sees the dim glow at the end of the hallway.

Eames is in his office, feet propped up on the coffee table, laptop in his lap, a small, lit lamp sitting on the side table glowing quietly over his shoulder. Eames' head is tipped back against the sofa, eyes closed, and there's a glass tumbler in his curled hand, resting on the cushion next to him.

Arthur murmurs Eames' name once, standing just outside the door, then again after he takes a few steps closer. Standing beside the couch, he decides to close the laptop first and set it aside, saving it from the remains of Eames' drink or falling in case Eames wakes too suddenly. Arthur then takes the glass from Eames' loose fingers and places it well out of reach of flailing legs. They twitch at the loss, but Eames shows no other signs of waking up.

With one hand on the back of the couch, Arthur leans over Eames, quiet and slow, and brings his other hand to Eames' forehead. He tries to keep his touch light but comforting, the same way his mother always could. He lets himself have a moment to study Eames' face, looking younger now, despite the day's worth of stubble. Gently, Arthur tilts in, mouth close to Eames' ear, and calls for Eames again, so quiet it's more an exhalation than speech.

On its own, Arthur's hand slides into Eames' hair. It's soft and thick, silky against Arthur's fingers. Eames makes a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat and turns into the touch, mouth curling at the corners. Arthur's thumb sweeps against the temple, his palm rasping over stubble. 

"Eames," Arthur says again, a little louder this time. He's starting to pull his hand away when Eames turns just a little bit more, enough so that his lips brush against the thin-skinned inside of Arthur's wrist. It isn't a kiss, but it's not an accident, either. The touch sets Arthur's hair on end, his blood thunders in his ears. 

Finally, Eames eyes flutter open, dark and soft with sleep. Arthur's knuckles brush against the blade of Eames' jaw as his eyes come into focus, but the smile never leaves his face. "Aren't you up past your bed time?" he says to Arthur, the words a little slurred.

"It seems you are, too, Mr. Eames."

Eames hums and stretches his arms above his head. The t-shirt he's wearing rides up, exposing a slim strip of skin just above his pajama pants. The dim lamp turns the tanned skin bronze, and Arthur can't look away from it until it's gone. Luckily, Eames' eyes have slipped closed again; he doesn't notice.

"C'mon Eames," Arthur says, hands wrapped around one bicep, trying to tug him up off the couch. It only works because Eames allows it to.

On his feet, Eames is a little wobbly, both from sleep and the alcohol, and ends up letting Arthur take most of his weight. "First lesson about writing, Arthur, is that writers don't have bedtimes." Arthur guides him for a couple of steps and then Eames says, "And I believe I told you not to call me that."

Arthur stops to apologize, but the sudden movement has Eames wavering backward. Arthur catches him by wrapping an arm around his waist. This enables Eames to throw his arm over Arthur's shoulder, his hand, strangely, burying itself in Arthur's hair.

Eames sighs, which seems to make him heavier, or at least lean more heavily against Arthur, and he's indescribably grateful that Eames is still half-asleep and probably a little drunk. Arthur doesn't have to worry about Eames noticing the obvious erection tenting his sweatpants, or the way it twitches every time Eames' breath gusts across Arthur's neck.

They get to Eames' bedroom without further incident, where Arthur guides him to the bed. Eames flops down none too gently, and lets his legs swing against the mattress. Arthur immediately misses the weight and heat of his body, and wonders what he should do now; if Eames sleeps in the pajama pants or not, if he should slip them off, if Eames is even wearing anything underneath them.

His cock gives a painful throb at that last thought.

In the end, Eames makes the decision for Arthur by worming his way onto the bed enough so that he can curl his legs up. He looks ridiculous, laying on the bed diagonally, without a pillow under his head to support his neck, so Arthur rounds the bed and arranges him a little better, tucks the pillow underneath his head while Eames rolls around, trying to get comfortable. There's a cedar chest at the end of the bed, and Arthur opens it to find a light quilt to throw over him.

Satisfied that Eames won't fall out of bed or wake up with the world's worst neck crick, he touches Eames ankle once, his fingertips just skimming over the bone. It isn't until he's almost out the door that Eames says, "Thanks, love," voice rough and quiet. 

Arthur smiles.

: : :

The night doesn't get mentioned the next day or even the one after that, so Arthur assumes that Eames doesn't even remember it. Which, in the end, is probably for the best. Arthur tries not to dwell on it, but every once in awhile, he feels Eames watching him. When he turns, though, Eames' attention is on the paper he's reading or the dinner he's preparing.

Other times, when Arthur catches Eames staring off into space, his fingers itch to sink into Eames' hair like the did that night, comb through it slow and smooth. At those times, his wrist tingles with the memory of Eames' lips. 

It often makes Arthur feel younger than he is, crushing on a man almost old enough to be his father. A man who is supposed to be guiding him on the path to becoming a book editor, helping him make connections in the publishing world that will be useful when he's finally graduated. 

Mostly, they talk about Arthur's love of books, why he wants to be an editor and not a writer. They debate the merits of Tolstoy and Lovecraft. How Stephenie Meyer has perverted both the teen and horror genres. He doesn't mention how he is well into Eames' third book, or how he's also started American Gods. Eames' ego is big enough as it is.

Despite how much they disagree, Arthur enjoys the discussions with Eames. It's nothing like he'd get at home. Eames respects his opinion, though he hardly ever agrees with it. And only once in awhile does a little condescension bleed into his words, as if Arthur is still only a child and knows not of what he speaks.

Still, for all intents and purposes, Arthur isn't networking very much, unless Mrs. Braddock and the Radigan boys count. Which they don't.

At least he's made some friends with the people at Garden of Eden. People his own age that he can hang out with occasionally, go to the movies or, on one rare occasion, sneak onto the beach for some skinny dipping. It's not like hanging out with Yusuf and Ariadne at Rehoboth Beach, but it's close. Making new friends his own age isn't what he's in Virgina for, though. 

Had he known it would take an injury sending him home early to get that particular ball rolling, he would've thrown himself in front of the zero turn a few weeks ago. Instead, it takes a rogue tree branch to his back to find out what Eames has been doing with his days. 

Arthur closes the front door quietly, not wanting to break Eames' concentration in case he's in the middle of writing. But as he makes his way to the kitchen, Arthur realizes he needn't have worried. He can hear Eames from his study, arguing with somebody. Arthur hopes Eames is on the phone. If not, he wonders if he shouldn't pay closer attention to Eames sanity.

He leans against the sink, back sore and stiff, and sips at a glass of tea. Eventually, Eames' voice starts getting louder, and then he's in the kitchen, still arguing, a phone pressed tight to his ear. Arthur sighs in relief. 

Eames doesn't notice Arthur at first, doesn't see him until he steps up to the kitchen counter and almost smacks into him. The surprise catches Eames mid-sentence, and he says, "Mal, do whatever you want. You always do. Phone you later," into the phone. To Arthur, he says, "What happened?" his eyes instantly scanning Arthur from head to toe. Luckily, his back is facing away from Eames, so he doesn't see the damage right away.

Arthur shrugs, wincing a little at the movement. "Stupid mistake on my part."

Eames' eyes narrow and he motions with one finger for Arthur to turn. Arthur does. ''Bloody hell, Arthur! What _happened_?!" 

Arthur flattens his palms on the counter and sighs. "We were removing some trees. I turned at the wrong time. It happens. I'll be fine. I--" He hisses at the weight of Eames' hand on his shoulder, where Arthur imagines the bruise is the darkest blue-purple. Eames pulls it away, letting it fall instead to the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and off so he can see everything. 

Eames sucks in a breath, his tongue making a wet sound against his teeth. "This looks wicked, Arthur. What can I do?"

"Nothing really, I--" his whole body shudders when a warm, dry hand skims feather-light down his back, then back up. He has to bite his tongue against a moan. "A few nights sleeping on my stomach and I'll be fine. _Really_." He turns then, and finds Eames closer than Arthur expects, eyes dark and skeptical. "Fine," he sighs, shoulders dropping. "If you wouldn't mind, maybe some Icy Hot will help?" 

Eames turns, heading for the stairs. "Where do you keep it?" He's stopped short by Arthur's hand on his wrist. 

"I can get it myself, Eames. I didn't break my legs. Just. Wait here." Eames follows anyway, phone left behind in the kitchen.

As he climbs the stairs, Arthur silently thanks his mother and track coaches for reinforcing proper posture. He'd be in a lot more pain right now if he hadn't been working on keeping his shoulders back and spine straight his entire life. In the bathroom, he digs the balm out of his toiletry bag, hands it over to Eames, and turns around, leaning against the vanity for support. When he doesn't feel anything, he chances a glance over his shoulder. Eames' mouth is pulled down at the corner, his hands still hovering in the air, fingers clasped tight around the tub of Icy Hot. 

"Eames?"

He startles and catches Arthur's gaze. "Yes, right. Why don't you lay down and get comfortable?"

Arthur rolls his eyes but doesn't have much energy to argue. He toes his boots off and then crawls into the bed from the foot end, only getting in far enough to reach a pillow and closes his eyes on a sigh. He's in the middle, which gives Eames enough room to sit on the side and not break his back. 

Eames sits on Arthur's left side, the side Arthur's facing away from. Arthur doesn't mind. It leaves him able to focus on Eames' touch, for once purposely on Arthur, and gentle besides.

The balm is cold at first, feels good against the skin of the bruise, his aching shoulders. Eames keeps his touch light, hands flat and wide, smoothing over Arthur's entire back. It isn't necessary, but it doesn't hurt either, so Arthur doesn't object. 

Eventually, Eames turns his attention to what Arthur assumes is the worst of the bruising, using only his fingertips to keep from pressing to hard. He takes a breath, an obvious sign that he wants to say something, and Arthur is pretty sure he doesn't want to hear whatever warnings Eames is going to give him. He asks, "What is it?" anyway.

Eames' fingers still, touching but not moving for a moment, then continue as Eames says, "I know you didn't come here for work or for fun. I know I'm meant to help guide you in the literary world. Help you make connections. I know I haven't been doing that much. I don't-- I wasn't sure." He groans, long and low. "There's a party. A private one, thank fuck, but a party nonetheless. For my new book. I was hoping Dom would be able to talk Mal out of it." 

The last is said more to himself than to Arthur, but he asks, "Dom?" anyway.

"My editor. His wife, Mallorie, is my publicist and never misses a chance to throw a party."

Arthur isn't sure how to react to that. He settles on a quiet, "Ah." Eames' thumb keeps circling his right shoulder blade. It's distracting.

"Anyway, it'll be attended mostly by pretentious gits, which means you'll fit right in." Arthur turns his head and starts to slide his hand out from under the pillow to thump Eames wherever he can reach him, but Eames is smiling, so Arthur smiles back. "Would you like to go?"

Arthur lets the question hang in the air, enjoying Eames' sudden, surprising fit of nervousness, then releases a long-suffering sigh. "Mom's gonna _love_ telling me 'I told you so.'"


	3. Chapter 3

Eames spends the next ten days explaining all the things that will be expected of him when they go to D.C. for the party. "It isn't all fun and games, this writer gig," Eames laments. "There are interviews with inane questions and ass kissing and sodding _mingling_ I have to do." Arthur watches Eames stab his fork a little more forcefully than necessary into a piece of chicken. "It's a good thing they serve alcohol," Eames says to his plate.

Arthur snickers quietly and Eames looks up, eyes wide, as if he's just realized Arthur is sitting across from him. "Well, and you'll be there, too. Take some of the load off." He sips at his beer, studying Arthur over the bottle. "Mal will _definitely_ love you," he finishes, voice a tad ominous.

"Do I want to ask why?" Arthur asks, arching a brow and cutting into his own chicken.

Eames chuckles, low and foreboding. "Mal is the most dreadful, frustrating, arrogant, gorgeous woman I have ever had the fortune to know. And having known her longer than almost anyone else," he continues, pausing to eat a fork-full of pasta salad, "I'm the only one that can say so."

Gaze fixated on Eames' lips pursed around an errant noodle, Arthur temporarily loses track of the conversation. He watches Eames suck it in, making a small wet noise at the end, and clears his throat, ducks his head so Eames won't see the heat in his cheeks. "How do you know Mal?" Arthur asks, low and rough.

Eames doesn't notice the sandpaper texture of Arthur's voice as he launches into the story about how he met Mal, his " oldest and dearest friend," while attending university in Paris.

His face wistful, Eames explains how perfectly bored he was on the very first day of Women's Studies, already doubting his choice to attend university at all, even though his father hadn't given him any choice at all. That's when, from across the room, he saw and instantly fell in love with Mal, a gorgeous, vivacious French girl who was just as stuck thanks to an equally over-reaching father.

Together, they managed to make their classes more interesting, coming up with ways to engage their professor in far more lively and interesting discussion than the professor himself had planned. Their friendship meant getting through homework quicker, too. Which left them time for raiding Mal's father's wine cellar, smoking french cigarettes, and making out in Eames' dorm room.

Eames chuckles at this last part, shaking his head at the memories. Arthur bites his lip in disappointment, trying to sound nonchalant as he asks, "So she's your ex then?" 

"No." Eames lengthens the word, forming a perfect circle with his plush lips. "We were -- _are_ \-- too much alike. Too passionate and stubborn to ever succeed as lovers. No, she met Dom and then I met Neal and, well. _They_ lived happily ever after, I suppose." His eyes dim and he looks away from Arthur to take a long swig of his beer.

Arthur ignores the thrill in his stomach at confirmation of Eames' sexuality. The fall of Eames' face after the mention of Neal, though, tells Arthur more of that relationship than Eames would probably want him to know. He focuses instead on his cleaning his plate to give Eames privacy to collect himself.

"Yes, so. Mal." Eames voice startles Arthur and he glances up to find Eames smiling once again, eyes bright as he gives Arthur a long, assessing look. "She'll definitely like you. Straight-laced, young, _and_ beautiful. She'll eat you up if you let her."

"And how do I not let her?"

"Stick close to me," he says, solemn. Arthur arches a brow at Eames and the corner of his mouth quirks down until Eames shoots him a wink and smiles.

Every day, Arthur learns a little bit more about Mal and Dom. Eames too, considering how tightly their histories are entwined. Bits and pieces of the story of Eames and Neal come out, Eames always closing up after the letting something too personal slip. Like the time he revealed Neal was his first true relationship. Or when he confessed that he'd thought Neal would be it for him, despite Mal's warnings to the contrary.

"The heart wants what the heart wants. And Paris is _not_ the city to fall in love in for the first time." Eames says, nostalgia softening his face. Then, almost as suddenly as he started talking about it, he freezes up, and his voice falls flat. "That's another thing about Mal," he continues, as if he hadn't mentioned Neal at all. "She thinks she's right about everything. And she usually is."

Eames doesn't echo Arthur's chuckle, instead turning on his heel to retreat to his study. From the kitchen, Arthur can hear the muted clicking of the laptop keyboard and decides to spend the rest of the night in his room, reading the third of Eames' books.

The evening before they're set to leave for Washington D.C., they're sitting on the deck, enjoying an after dinner beer and Eames starts telling Arthur about his first book release party; how nervous he was despite having Mal and Dom by his side. He also mentions clinging desperately to a person named Robert, but Arthur doesn't ask for clarification and Eames doesn't seem to notice mentioning him in the first place.

"It was in this tiny little bookstore in Boston," he starts, eyes unfocused, staring into the dark. "I wasn't a known quantity yet. It was only my second book, but Mal said," he huffs, bemused. "She said, 'you have to get known to be known.'" Eames shakes his head and thumbs at a drop of water wending its way down the neck of his beer bottle. "I told her she was bollocks, but she said to trust her and, God help me, I did."

Arthur watches Eames as he talks, head tipped against the back of the chair. They're not quite a foot apart, close enough that he could reach out and drag his knuckles along the elegant line of Eames' neck and over the jut of his Adam's apple if he wanted. Instead, he curls his hand into a fist and rests it on the armrest.

"So there I was, nervous as hell, grinding the bones in Robert's hand to little more than dust, Mal and Dom bringing up the rear so I can't escape and I just...I walked in and it all went away." He swallows hard, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "Somehow, I managed to con my way through two hours of glad-handing even the lowliest reporters, winning them over with my charming smile and sparkling personality." 

Arthur snorts so hard, his swallow of beer threatens to come back up. 

Eames looks over at him, eyes narrowed but glinting. "Oh piss off," he says, quirking his lips. "I could sweet talk a banana from a gorilla and you bloody well know it."

Arthur does know it, but he's not going to admit it. Not to Eames. And Eames doesn't seem to care either way, his eyes dark and focused on Arthur. After a minute that stretches out long and heavy, his gaze slides to Arthur's fist and he trails his fingertips over it. "Poor Arthur, always so tense."

He uncurls his hand before Eames can pull his away and, for one brief moment, their fingers tangle together. Eames' seem to tighten, just a quick flex of the knuckles, then drop to hang in the empty space between their chairs.

"Anyway," he says, voice raspy, "tomorrow's party will be slightly bigger than that. But I have no doubt you'll pull through with flying colors. And I'll be there for whatever you need." As an after thought, he adds, "Mal, too, I'm sure."

Draining the last of his beer, Eames rises from his chair and stretches his arms over his head. The light from the kitchen is dim, but Arthur can still see the strip of skin exposed between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his jeans. The warm glow colors Eames' skin deep bronze. Arthur can only imagine what it would feel like under his fingertips, the short hairs there dry and scratchy. "I'm off to bed," says Eames. "Long day tomorrow."

Arthur nods and murmurs a good night, but doesn't follow. In the quiet stillness of the night, he imagines he can still feel the light pressure of Eames' fingers on his skin, and he smiles.

: : :

It took a little sweet talking of his coworkers, but Arthur had managed to trade some days with them to afford the two-night trip to D.C. with Eames. And as Eames pulls away from the cabin, Arthur promises himself to focus on the weekend and not on the nearly three straight weeks he's going to have to work when he gets back.

They leave at the crack of dawn, allowing Eames to do a series of interviews beforehand. This gives Arthur enough time for a short run, but not the following swim or shower. He’d at least packed his clothes the night before and left them by the door, allowing him to drop into Eames’ sleek Audi convertible, skin still a little sticky, and sleep until they get to Arlington.

Arthur wakes up just as Regan Airport ends and the Potomac glints dull blue beneath them. He yawns and stretches, then runs his hand through wind-mussed hair and rolls his head to the side to look at Eames. 

He looks loose and relaxed for the first time in weeks, the wind ruffling through his hair and eyes hidden by a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. He's quietly singing along, his full lips hardly moving, to a low-playing song on the radio. Arthur thinks it might be Lady Gaga.

Once he gets his fill of looking at Eames, he turns to the other side. He can't see it from so far away, not clearly, but he knows what lies on the opposite banks. Knows it better than he sometimes wishes he did.

He wakes up in increments, perking up a little with each monument that comes into view; first is the dome of the Jefferson Memorial seeming overshadowed by the Washington Monument. Next to that, if he squints, Arthur can just make out the corner of the Lincoln and then the view is interrupted by a line of trees and the Arlington Bridge. 

Arthur stretches again and reaches for the bottle of water he brought with. After taking a long swallow, he asks, "Are we there yet?" adding just a hint of petulance to his tone. Eames startles, making Arthur dimple.

"About another ten minutes, excepting traffic." Eames glances at Arthur and gives him quick grin. 

It's less than that when they pull up to a tall, white building. It looks vaguely colonial with a few modern updates to the windows and the entryway.There's a man in a valet uniform waiting out front that rushes over to the trunk and begins pulling out bags. Another man follows him, dressed in a button down shirt and casual slacks. Eames approaches the second with his hand out, growling "Dominic," in a friendly sort of way. The two clasp hands, embracing each other for the length of a pat on the back. Then Eames is turning to Arthur and waving him over. "Arthur, this is Dom. Dom, Arthur." Arthur accepts Dom's out-stretched hand.

"Eames has told me a lot about you," Dom says, squinting at Arthur against the sunlight. 

Surprised, Arthur glances at Eames, who ducks his head, but can't hide pink-tipped ears. "Yes, well. I've heard a lot about you, too," Arthur says, eyes sliding back to meet Dom's

"Don't believe a thing he says," Dom replies with a wink before spinning around to consult with Eames again, Arthur all but forgotten as Dom leads them through the revolving doors to a gleaming bank of elevators, their shoes shushing over plush, navy blue carpeting. 

Eames had explained to Arthur about Dom's firm owning the top floor of the building and converting it to a fully loaded penthouse, handy in situations just like this one; an author needing a place to stay for a book tour or to wrap up a manuscript or, if they author is really spoiled, a place for them to get away from it all. 

"And by it all," Eames explained, "they mean getting away from the family to have a little dalliance with someone who isn't the missus. Or mister."

Arthur, amused by the scorn in Eames' voice, says, "Not like you've ever done that, I'm sure." He tries to keep his tone teasing, but Eames gives him a sharp look. 

"Never. Not once."

But for all Eames described it, Arthur hadn't expected someplace so open and expansive. The elevator doors opening to a high-ceilinged foyer, with a wall-hanging waterfall on one side and a sideboard on the other. 

Moving further into the penthouse, Arthur finds only sharp, clean lines in everything from the sofa and love seat to the conference table to the kitchen appliances. The apartment is the complete opposite of Eames' cabin -- modern bordering on industrial where the cabin is cozy and welcoming -- and Arthur notices the slight tightening of Eames' shoulders, the sharp click of his shoes against the tiled floor.

It may be better than a hotel, more familiar in some ways, and more private, too. But Arthur could never imagine getting comfortable here, curling up with a manuscript, a cup of coffee, and a red correction pen on the straight-backed sofa. Arthur is grateful they're only going spend two nights here. Already he finds himself missing the warmth of the cabin.

: : :

Studying himself in the mirror, damp from the shower, Arthur thinks about the evening that lies ahead. Getting this dressed up feels like something official, like when he was getting ready for prom. He has to forcibly remind himself that this is not a date; Eames may have made suggestions about how to dress and how to act, and it may even feel a little like a date and meeting the parents all in one go, but it's not. It's _not_. It's fancy hors d'oeuvres and an endless supply of champagne and trying to charm book editors and a publicist, world famous authors and select members of the media. That's it. End of story.

He decides to slick his hair back, flat against the scalp, with a little help from a strong-hold pomade, the only thing tough enough to rein in his loose curls. The change is instant and severe. He doesn't guess how much older it makes him look, hopes a few years at least, but it definitely takes the focus away from his hair and draws attention to his deep-set eyes and sharp cheekbones. His smile ruins the entire effect, though, the dimples softening everything. He vows to keep the smiling to a minimum.

His clothes wait for him in the bedroom, a slate blue Hugo Boss suit his grandfather helped him pick out paired with a dove grey Calvin Klein oxford. Smoothing his fingers over the black tie helps soothe his nerves. 

The shirt is cool against his damp, heated skin, clings to the wings of his shoulder blades. Arthur watches himself in the mirror as he buttons it up, leaving the french cuffs open around his wrists. 

The pants are as snug as they were on graduation day, and Arthur flushes at the memory of the tailor fluttering around him, pinning this and that, under the knowing eye of Arthur's grandfather. It had felt weird, at first, wearing something so fitting, not quite made for him, but almost. But Ariadne's, "Holy shit, Arthur, look at your _ass_!" made all the discomfort worth it. He makes a half-turn now, in front of the mirror. _Oh yeah_.

The tie slithers through his hands like water, warm and silky, and after having practiced for ages the night before graduation, Arthur is pretty sure he could tie the knot with one hand behind his back. He checks his reflection anyway, if only to make certain the notch is where it should be, before slipping into a pair of gleaming tie-up oxfords.

The coat comes last, Arthur's fingers tracing the satiny edging of the lapels first, a little wistful, the picks it up carefully and eases it over his shoulders. His hands fall to the single button on instinct and he smiles at the snug, familiar fit; the coat nipping in at the waist to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders compared to the narrowness of his waist. In the mirror, it makes him look more delicate than he is. Arthur is strangely okay with that.

The only thing left to complete the ensemble is a pair of mother of pearl cuff links from his grandmother. They feel too small between his fingers and he fumbles with them twice before getting them through the buttonholes.

He takes a moment to survey himself one last time, then heads down the hall to find Eames still in his own room, dressed only in a white undershirt and boxer briefs, his suit still on its hangar on a hook next to the mirror. He hasn’t heard Arthur’s footsteps, so Arthur leans against the door frame and watches.

Eames reaches for the shirt first, much to Arthur’s disappointment, the stark whiteness contrasting brilliantly with Eames’ sun tanned skin. He’s murmuring something Arthur doesn’t catch under his breath as he fastens the buttons. With the collar popped up and the top two buttons still open, Eames looks like a bulked out Tom Cruise from Risky Business. Only much, _much_ hotter.

Too late, Arthur realizes he should’ve taken the opportunity to oogle Eames’ ass when he could. He barely gets a glimpse of it shifting under the cotton before Eames is sitting on the bed, pulling his pants on. In the silence of the room, Arthur imagines he can hear the rasp of the material against the hair on Eames’ legs.

Standing up, Eames tucks his shirt in with quick, efficient shoves, and then he’s zipping up the fly, buttoning the button. Ok, so even in black wool, Eames’ ass looks fantastic. Arthur’s beginning to suspect a pattern.

Eames reaches for the tie and lets out a long, low sigh, draping it around his neck. He stands there for long moments, staring at himself in the mirror, hands on his hips. Eventually, Arthur figures out Eames doesn’t plan on knotting his tie anytime soon, so he decides to speak up.

“You have to finish buttoning up the shirt first, _then_ you knot the tie.”

Eames startles and spins, eyes wide. "Oh that would make a lovely headline. 'Author suffers heart attack before release party.' Brilliant, that." He turns back to his mirror and sighs again. "Have I mentioned how much I hate this part?”

Arthur pushes off from the door frame and closes the distance between them. “Once, maybe twice,” he teases, grinning wide.

“Yeah? Well, I do.”

“I know, I know. Worse than Chinese water torture.”

They’re face to face, an arm’s length apart, and Eames’ humored huff gusts warm and damp over Arthur’s face “Do not patronize me, Arthur.” His words are clipped, but his eyes are bright. It’s clear he understands what Arthur is trying to do.

Arthur’s eyes widen and he flattens his hand over his heart. “I would never!” But the corner of his mouth twitches and Eames flatters Arthur with a wide, honest smile. Something heavy lodges itself in Arthur’s chest. It feels just that little bit harder to breathe.

Without thinking, Arthur reaches up to close the rest of the buttons on Eames’ shirt. He attempts to ignore heat he can feel seeping into his fingers. Focuses instead on smooth buttons, the minute striations that make each one unique, and the black silk of Eames’ tie brushing cool and slick against Arthur’s knuckles.

Once the buttons are closed, Eames using one finger to tug at the collar, Arthur turns his attentions to the tie. It’s slim and black and follows Arthur’s movements effortlessly. Eames tips his head back to give Arthur room and each of his breaths whispers over the bridge of Arthur's nose. Arthur can smell the cool, clean mint of Eames' toothpaste.

This close, it's hard to ignore the warmth of Eames' skin, the spice of his cologne, or the width of his chest. His knuckles brush against Eames' neck and Arthur feels the rasp of hair there. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a half smile. "You missed a spot." He takes both ends of the tie in one hand and thumbs over the hair once, twice.

"Tradition," Eames huffs, rolling up onto the balls of his feet, then back down.

"Hold still," Arthur murmurs, brows furrowed. There's no sound in the room but the quiet slide of silk against silk and then the he's done; knot tied, moment over. Arthur takes a half-step back to survey his work, unnecessarily fiddling with the tie to make sure it's straight then smoothing his palm down the length of it. His hand pauses on Eames stomach, the muscle underneath firm. When he looks up, Eames' eyes are dark and still. His nostrils flare.

Arthur's breath hitches and his hand falls away, finger by finger. "I, uh. I think it's good." He gestures at the mirror. "Take a look."

Eames does, smoothing over the tie himself, and Arthur takes a deep breath, another step back. In the mirror, he watches Eames fiddle with his collar, one finger tugging it away from his neck.

"Quit it," Arthur chastises, voice sharp, one hand trying to still Eames' arm.

Eames grumbles. "Hate these bloody things."

"You look fine. You know you do." And Eames does; hair slicked down and to the side, looking darker than usual. It makes him seem younger, which doesn't really help Arthur's crush at all. Neither does his clean-shaven face. The lack of a beard makes Eames' lips look paler. Makes Arthur want to kiss and nip at them, make them flush the way he's used to, lush and pink and perfect.

Eames reaches for his coat and Arthur takes a third step back. From here, he can take all of Eames in. Black wool straining slightly at the shoulders to the tuck at the waist, emphasizing slim hips, to the double vent in the back, highlighting Eames’ round, pert ass. It is quite the transformation from Eames’ usual jeans and a t-shirt. Or no shirt at all, Arthur is delighted to discover.

With one last brush of his palm over the lapels, Eames turns. "Well, that's settled, then. Let's have a look at you."

Arthur tries not to fidget under the weight of his gaze, or the way his eyes go hot and dark. He's quiet for long moments and Arthur almost affects a model pose, but then the corner of Eames' mouth ticks up. "I suppose you always carry a suit around in case of emergencies?"

Arthur's cheeks heat; he smiles. "My mom made sure I brought it with. In case I met a nice, young man I wanted to impress." His smile turns down a little and he makes a quiet tsking sound. He swipes a hand at some imaginary lint of the sleeve of Eames' suit. "You're not at all what she had in mind, but you'll do in a pinch, I guess."

Eames doesn't see his teasing wink, is instead focused on catching Arthur's hand before he can pull it away. He thumbs over Arthur's wrists and turns them to get a closer look at Arthur's cuff links. "These are rather plain, don't you think?"

Arthur lifts a shoulder, trying hard not to focus on the strength of Eames' hands, or how rough the skin is against his own. "Family heirlooms."

"Oh no," Eames croons. "A suit like this should have something far more fabulous to accompany it." He releases Arthur to dig through his toiletry kit and pulls out a blue, velvety bag, tips its contents out into his open palm. "There you are," he says to the box. He holds up his hand, triumphant. Arthur can seen the glint of black and silver between thick fingers. "Onyx and sterling silver commas. A present from Mal for the release of my first book. Well, the first one she promoted."

His fingers are warm and nimble, slipping the stylized cuff links through Arthur's buttonholes. When they're on, Eames doesn't let go of Arthur's wrists, his thumbs a light weight against the pulse. Arthur looks up to see his face and there's a muscle in his jaw that tics. Arthur wants to brush the backs of his fingers over it to soothe it, but doesn't want to shake Eames' grasp, either.

Finally, Eames breathes deep and looks up, eyes bright and smiling. "Now you look properly smashing. Too good to be my date, in any case." He winks and Arthur smiles, pride curling tight in his chest.

"Are you ready then?" Arthur asks, a little breathless.

Eames eyes dim slightly. "Just about. Meet you at the lift?" He glances in the mirror one last time, brushing at stray lint on his shoulder.

Arthur nods and leaves, presses the call button and waits, fingers fiddling with his borrowed cuff links. They’re still warm from Eames and blurred with fingerprints when Arthur examines them more closely. He pulls his handkerchief out to shine them up.

Eames steps up next to Arthur before he’s finished with the second one, and he glances up to see Eames smiling at him, chuckling a little. The corner of Arthur’s mouth slants down. “What are you laughing at?”

Eames shakes his head and steps onto the elevator. “Nothing darling. Absolutely Nothing.”

: : :

The venue for the party is an unassuming shop sandwiched between a dry cleaners and a pharmacy. It's an institution in DC, going back two dozen decades, and boasts guests from all walks of life; from former presidents and current politicos to more mainstream authors to iconic authors such as Norman Mailer and Margaret Atwood to the regular, every day customer. The night promises to be interesting, a unique blend of media, an entourage from the publishing company, fellow authors -- friends of Eames' -- there to give him a hard time, (according to Eames) and healthy mix of Eames' fans.

The purple awning is a dark smudge in the fading light, edged with fairy lights Arthur can see from where he and Eames are waiting in a line of cars, blocks away. Arthur's knee bounces in nervous anticipation as he watches people spilling out of the shop onto the sidewalk; women in elegant dresses and men in sharp suits. 

The line of cars moves slow, each one letting out one or two people to a smattering of camera flares. Eames had told Arthur it would be something like a movie premiere, with photographers and reporters waiting outside, but much _much_ smaller. Arthur thinks he counts five or six different bursts of light. Not too shabby for his first time.

Next to him, Eames is long line of heat pressed up against Arthur's side from knee to hip to shoulder. He too is watching the media, the line of cars inching their way closer. "Ready?" he asks Arthur, tapping his thumb against Arthur's knee.

"Not really," Arthur answers honestly. He'd have liked to have met Mal before this, if not to get to know her, then at least to figure out what his best defense against her will be. The rest of it he thinks he can handle. He's good at making nice, kissing ass if necessary. Arthur may only be eighteen, but he's not stupid; he thinks he's pretty well-informed, more so than most kids his age, and even though he may not be a fan of the sci-fi/fantasy genre, he is fairly confident he can fake it for a few hours.

It's not like Arthur isn't getting anything out of this night, either. Being introduced to influential authors and publishers is a huge step this early in his career, and Arthur isn't dumb enough to screw up this opportunity.

Pulling nearer to the shop, Arthur can make out details, like the two trees flanking the doorway, also trimmed with fairy lights, and the light spilling from the window front, glowing golden and warm. There are people inside, dozens; it looks full but not packed. Arthur is eager to get inside. 

They're just two cars down from getting out when Eames takes Arthur's hand in his. It draws Arthur's attention away from the crowd. 

"The most important thing tonight is to have fun," he says, looking too somber for the statement.

Arthur squeezes his fingers in reassurance and smiles. "And avoid Mal, right?" He's proud that he can make Eames grin, it loosens something inside himself, making it easier to breathe.

"That goes without saying," Eames says with a wink. 

Through the closed window, Arthur can hear the quiet rumblings of the people outside. From the corner of his eye, he can see the car in front of them pulling away, but he can't stop watching at Eames. Wants to ruffle his ridiculously formal hair, thumb over his pressed-together lips, or even flatten his palm over Eames' chest to see if his heart is thumping as hard as his own. It feels like a moment here, like something big could happen if Arthur would just reach out and grab it, grab _Eames_. But the driver is saying something and Eames is gently prodding him and the car door opens and he's on the sidewalk, blinking rapidly into the camera flashes. 

Eames is right behind him as he emerges from the car, his hand heavy on Arthur's waist. He guides him away from the car and stops, allowing the photographers to get their shots in. Because it's Eames, they are more eager, taking picture after picture, turning everything Arthur sees into shadows. Eames' hand on his hip tightens and Arthur leans into him on reflex, expecting Eames to say something. His lips brush against the shell of Arthur's ear as he says, "Smile, love."

"It makes me look too young," Arthur says, turning to give Eames his full attention and bumping their noses together. He thinks that maybe he smiles anyway because Eames is smiling and pleased and fits so well against Arthur's body. Arthur hopes that if he is smiling, the papers don't accuse Eames of robbing the cradle. The last thing Arthur wants to do is create a scandal.

Dom stands near the door, smiling and waiting for Eames to get through with the pictures. There's a woman with him, her arm looped loosely through Dom's. She looks like a 1930s movie star with the dark fall of hair to one side of her face, eyes rimmed with kohl, and a dress reminiscent of the prohibition era. Her eyes sparkle and her lips quirk and Arthur thinks that he can see why Eames loves her. 

" _Mon cher_ ," she cries, pulling away from Dom to kiss Eames on either cheek. Her arms fold easily around his neck, tugging him down, and Arthur misses the heat of his arm when it pulls away to wrap around her waist.

"Darling," Eames croons, taking a breath, his nose buried in soft-looking hair. They have a quick argument in french right out in the open where everybody can hear, and Arthur pretends he can't understand that Eames is complaining about the pomp and circumstance in between Mal railing at him that he doesn't visit her often enough. 

Dom comes up to shake Arthur's hand and gives him a knowing look.

"Is this how they always are?" Arthur asks, gaze bouncing between the two. Mal looks exquisite with a blush blooming high in her cheeks. Eames' hands seem too big on her shoulders as he tries to calm her.

"Pretty much. And, just so you know?" Dom leans in and drops his voice, though not enough for Mal to not hear him. "She always wins." 

"Of course I win," she says, turning her attention to Arthur. "And you must be dear Arthur." She gives him the same peck on each cheek she gave Eames, then holds him an arm's length away from her, studying him from head to toe. 

"Oh, Eames," she breathes, eyes glittering dangerously. "He's divine. And perfect for you, too." She ignores Arthur's confusion and Eames strangled groan and slips her hand through Arthur's arm, curling slim fingers around his elbow. "Come, come," she orders, leading Arthur into the party before he can figure out what the hell just happened.

Behind him, Dom pats him on the shoulder.

: : :

The party ends up being closer to a cocktail mixer than...well, the star-studded extravaganza Arthur had imagined. Not that he's complaining.

It starts with an introduction from the store's owner of Dom, then Dom introduces Eames. Eames in turn thanks Dom and Mal and everybody else for attending, hitting his friends and fellow co-authors with a few light insults about having better things to do with their time and taking notes about how a real author operates. Then he reads a passage from the new book; nothing long, about fifteen minutes worth of material, thanks everyone again and asks where in the hell the bloody alcohol is.

After that, Arthur spends the night making the rounds.

Arthur first meets Mal's father, a kind-faced man with British accent and as keen an interest in Arthur as Mal seems to have. He owns the publishing company, and suggests that Arthur keep in touch with Eames and Dom for the future. It feels somewhat like a brush-off, but Arthur's not phased. Befriending people that high up in the ranks was not something he expected right off the bat.

After that, Mal escorts him around the room, introducing him to this reporter and that critic and another author. When asked who Arthur is in relation to Eames, she merely says, "a friend of the family." But friend has a little more weight to it than it should, and the person he's being introduced to sometimes gives him a knowing look and a sly smile. Especially while shaking hands with Neil Gaiman. Who is, apparently, a poker buddy of Eames'. 

(Arthur may not be into sci-fi, but he knows who Neil fucking Gaiman is and has the fleeting thought that he might not wash his hand after tonight.)

No matter where Mal leads Arthur, though, Eames always seems to drift over, champagne glass in one hand, the other hand stuffed in a pocket. He handles the crowd well, smiling and laughing and being as charming as he ever is, but Arthur can see the tense set of his shoulders, the way his fingers tap irritably at the stem of whatever glass he's holding. Several times, Arthur catches him glancing around without a drink in his hand and Arthur fetches one for him. The glare Eames gives him after taking a sip and realizing Arthur has watered it down with some sparkling cider is not amused, but Arthur refuses to act ashamed.

Once, when Arthur is at a loss for something to do with his hands, Eames returns the favor, appearing at Arthur's elbow, glass in hand. Arthur doesn’t even bother to look at it before taking a sip – too busy tamping down the butterflies in his stomach over Eames’ attentiveness. He only just misses spitting out the mouthful of champagne, instead swallowing hard and shooting Eames a scowl. Eames only arches a brow at him and saunters off, barging his way in on a conversation between a critic and one of the fans.

Arthur also doesn’t miss the way Eames watches him from the corner of his eye as Arthur walks away to find a conversation of his own.

Mal, Arthur is delighted to discover, is not nearly as bad as Eames made her out to be. Ok, so she dotes on him a little too much, encouraging him to smile more, but she doesn’t seem to consider him a project like Eames predicted. Though she _is_ better at introducing him to all the people she claims Arthur will need to know than Eames is. Even Dom seems to be impressed with Arthur, the way he handles himself with the press and world-renowned authors. He acts almost like a proud father, which is more than a little odd considering they only just met.

But there are times that Arthur wants to be alone, too. Needing a bit of a breather, he excuses himself from whatever conversation he's involved in and wanders around the bookstore, scanning shelves and displays, investigating the children’s section. The air is cooler there, without the bodies to pen him in and he takes a moment to catch his breath, to catalog all the people he’s met in the last few hours, the discussions he’s been a part of, the knowing looks he’s traded with Eames, whole conversations held without saying a word. It leaves him a little breathless.

A hand settles against the small of his back, starting Arthur out of his thoughts. He turns to find Eames, glassless, eyes drunk-bright. “Having fun?”

“This is amazing,” Arthur says, more awed than he intends. He can feel the color rising in his cheeks, the dimples cutting deep. His head dips. “Thank you for asking me to come along.

“I’m glad I did,” says Eames, gently pulling Arthur’s face up with two fingers under his chin. “You fit here, you know.”

Arthur scans the crowd and the store. He doesn’t disagree, but he doesn’t say anything either, relishing the warm spread of Eames’ palm on his back. His body leans into Eames, just a little. Enough so that their shoulders brush.

Eames’ thumb traces the line of Arthur’s jaw, the skin dry and soft, and he looks like he’s about to say something when Mal suddenly appears from out of nowhere.

“It does not do for the guest of honor to hide,” she says, not quite half-amused.

“I have glad-handed every sodding reporter out there, Mal,” he grumbles quietly, hand dropping from Arthur’s face. Arthur’s hand twitches, an aborted attempt to reach out and take Eames’ hand in his before it falls. “Do allow me to have a moment to breathe.”

She turns to Arthur, her smile brilliant. “Everybody adores you, you know.” She links her arm through his but doesn’t pull him away from Eames just yet. Arthur is grateful for it.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he replies, not quite sure what to say to that.

“I was just about to ask Arthur if he’d like to go,” Eames breaks in, leaning into Arthur so they’re pressed together from elbow to shoulder. Arthur doesn’t miss the dangerous sparkle in Mal’s eye.

“No, not yet. It is still so early.” Mal’s accent is intoxicating, and Arthur finds himself caving under her desire.

He defers to Eames, eyes wide. “Another hour can’t hurt.”

Eames doesn't look convinced. His gaze is intense, dark and heavy. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slow, eyes never leaving Arthur’s as he says, “Yeah, all right.”

Mal grabs Arthur’s elbow, delighted, and leads him back into the fray, saying, “There is someone I would love for you to meet.” As if Arthur hasn’t already met every single person there. He’s sure he has.

Arthur is surprised to find more than an hour and a half has passed since he last looked at his watch. Eames is in a corner, laughing with Neil and China Miéville. He looks loose and relaxed with a half-full glass of champagne in one hand. Arthur wants to watch him like this, just for a little bit, interacting with friends he’s known for years, something Arthur never gets to see.

Instead, Eames head perks up slightly and he scans the room, searching. He stops on Arthur and smiles -- the first wide, honest smile Arthur has seen from him all night – and tips his head toward the front of the store. Arthur smiles and nods and winds his way between the lessening crowd to get to the front.

Mal, of course, stops him before he can set a foot out the door, but she’s smiling and presses the handles of a shiny silver bag into his palm. “Gift bags from the company,” she explains, smoothing errant curl from his forehead. “I made sure you got one of the good ones.”

“Uh, thanks,” Arthur says, his brain fuzzy from alcohol, his eloquence long since used up.

Her hand is cool on his neck as she makes him lean down and presses her cheek to each of his. “It was lovely to meet you, Arthur. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” Her face is open and warm and she clasps one of his hands between the two of hers before letting him leave.

Eames is just outside the door, having slipped out before Mal could catch him. He's lost his tie since the quiet moment they shared before Mal dragged Arthur away, and the top two buttons are undone. In the warm glow from the shop, Arthur can see a fine sheen of sweat in the hollow of Eames' throat, the curl of the tattoo on his collarbone. Arthur wants to lick it. He wets his lips instead and doesn't miss Eames' gaze dropping to his mouth.

"Our car will be here in a tick," Eames says, eyes dark in the dim light.

"That's fine. I could use the fresh air." And he could, the air in the bookshop had been warm, close to stifling, especially in his suit. The July night isn't cool by definition, but he feels like he can breathe again. Almost. He tips his head back to force himself to look away from Eames and the stubble that's appeared, framing his perfect, pink lips. His eyes slip closed and he breathes deep. 

There are other people milling about on the sidewalk, waiting for their cars or a taxi, so the both of them keep quiet. Arthur thinks maybe Eames is still watching him, thinks he can feel the weight of Eames gaze, but the light breeze through his hair feels good and he focuses on that instead, reaches up to untie his tie.

After several long, quiet moments, with Arthur listening to muted conversations and the random clicking of heels against pavement, Eames sounds far away when he calls for Arthur, and Arthur looks up, surprised to find Eames in the street on the far side of the car. He murmurs something to the driver, then raps his knuckles on the door and slides into the backseat. Arthur ducks into the back from the curb side.

There are several things Arthur wants to say to Eames now that they're alone. He settles on, "You're such a goddamn liar," because _I had a great time_ and _This was amazing_ sound too end-of-the-date right now.

Eames has his head tipped back against the seat and legs splayed out in front of him, every single part of him looking utterly relaxed. "Pardon?" he asks, rolling his head to the side to look at Arthur, eyebrows arched.

Arthur gestures at the space around them, indicating the car, and the shop disappearing behind them. "You spent two weeks telling me how awful this would be, preparing me for the fucking gallows, practically. But you had fun. You _like_ doing this. Meeting the fans, at least."

Eames lifts his hand and scrubs it through his hair, working out whatever he'd used to keep it all in place. Arthur is only a little upset he didn't get to do that himself. "Well, I couldn't let you think this would be easy now, could I?" Eames says, voice rough and slightly amused.

"Oh no, let the novice think he's facing down dragons," Arthur's tone is serious, but he can't help the sly smile, the droop of his eyelids. 

Eames sobers and straightens himself out. "There are many words I would use to describe you, Arthur, but novice isn't one of them. You were brilliant tonight."

Arthur grins, sheepish. He hadn't been fishing for compliments, really, but any time Eames compliments him sets his skin buzzing. Arthur can't seem to stop it. Especially with Eames watching him, eyes glittering dangerously in the dark. The weight of it makes Arthur's breath catch. 

Before either of them can say anything more, a bright white light catches Arthur's attention out of the corner of his eye and he turns to see the White House slipping by, the Washington Monument looming tall in front of them. Washington D.C. lit up for the night is something Arthur has never seen and, he realizes, it's also the long way back to their penthouse. He doesn't want to think about the implications of that, but the butterflies in his stomach have other ideas. 

Arthur sits back against the seat and lets his head loll, mimicking Eames posture, with his hands folded over his stomach. His breathing sounds a little ragged to his own ears, so he tries to concentrate on smoothing it out. When that doesn't work, he says, "Mal wasn't as bad as you made her out to be, either."

Eames chuckles. "Yes, well, you did let her lead you around all night. Acquiescence tends to put people on her good side."

Arthur makes a small moue of displeasure. "You make me sound like a puppy."

Eames' hand reaches up to Arthur's face and he thumbs at the small crease between Arthur's eyes. "Never that," he croons, adding a deep purr to the words that has Arthur leaning into his touch.

His fingertips brush against Arthur's hairline and Eames sighs, pushes his hand through fully and works out the pomade until Arthur can feel stiff curls brushing against his neck. "This was the only disappointment of the night," Eames says, rubbing lazy circles behind Arthur's ear. It sets cascading shivers tripping down his spine and he reaches up, wraps slim fingers around Eames' thick wrist. He can feel the slight shift of muscle under the skin and isn't sure if he's trying to hold Eames in place or push him away. Subtly, the fingers stretch out over his scalp to curl around the nape of his neck. 

"My... _hair_ was the disappointment?" Arthur asks, distracted by the way Eames is getting closer. The way he licks his lips, making them shine pink each time the car passes a streetlight. His free hand lands flat on Eames' chest, stopping his forward progress.

"You looked too uptight like that. Even more so than usual." His grin is fleeting and his grip on Arthur's neck tightens. 

Even with Arthur's hand between them, they're close; his words gusting over Arthur's lips. It would be so easy for Arthur to lean in and take what he's been wanting to since day one; to lick at those perfectly obscene lips, open Eames up and learn what he tastes like, what they would feel like pressed chest to chest. But Eames has been drinking champagne for most of the night and, as much as Arthur wants this, he's not about to take advantage of a drunk Eames, either. 

"Are you drunk?" Arthur asks, his voice an octave lower than usual. He watches Eames' eyes, looking for confusion, blurriness, madness. All of the above. What he sees dark, wide pupils, startling coherency. Heat. 

Eames' answer is a clipped, "no," that he barely gets out before Arthur leans forward and kisses him. 

It's just a light press of lips, a quiet sound of surprise from Eames. Arthur can taste the champagne on his breath, can feel the ratcheting of Eames' heartbeat under his palm. Eames' lips are as soft as Arthur imagined, softer even, clinging to his as he pulls away. 

Arthur licks his lips once, Eames' dark, glittering eyes track the movement, and his breath hitches. The thumb behind his ear presses gently, guiding, and Arthur follows easily enough, tilting his head as their mouths meet again. He feels acutely aware of each sensation this time; the scrape of Eames' stubble, the lushness of his lips, the slick-rough texture of his tongue and how carefully he licks at the seam of Arthur's lips, coaxing them open. 

Eames' mouth is hot and wet and Arthur feels himself sink into it, sink into _Eames_. His hand shifts and a finger slips into Eames' shirt, the pad of it rubbing over hot, dry skin and rough hair. Arthur feels the vibration of a purr start in Eames' chest and work its way out, warming him all over when it slips from Eames' mouth to his own.

There's a light tug on his hair and Arthur shows his displeasure by nipping at Eames' lower lip. This is what he's been dreaming of all summer, kissing Eames, breathing his air, feeling their bodies pressed together, and he's not ready for it to end yet. Sure, it's awkward in the car, his neck angled oddly and the driver right there-- 

Arthur stops, head tipped down so his nose is tucked next to Eames'. Eames' lips are still parted, breath gusting hot over Arthur's mouth and chin, and he's smiling. Arthur can feel it even with his eyes closed. Sharp fingernails scratch lightly at his nape.

"We're here, Arthur," Eames says, voice low and rough and warm. 

From the corner of his eye, Arthur can see the bright white glow of their building in the night, lit up with strategically placed spotlights. He moves slow and deliberate; taking his hand from Eames' chest first, then pulling away, sliding far enough away that he can open the door. Eames follows close behind, a long line of heat and arousal at Arthur's back.

Arthur's grateful for the night, its darkness and solitude. There is only the doorman of the building to greet them, and he looks them straight in the eye as he bids them a good evening. Arthur only blushes a little, knowing how he must appear with his hair disheveled and lips kiss-swollen, erection not-so-subtly ruining the line of his slacks. The teenager in him wants to rush through the lobby to get to the elevators, get upstairs and peel Eames out of his clothes, touch him all over. But the adult in him wins out, keeps his strides long and slow, his spine straight and his hands to himself, even through the ride up. He doesn't look at Eames once the entire time, unable to trust himself to not start kissing him again, knowing that if he does, he won't want to stop.

In the entrance of the penthouse, Arthur hears a muffled thud as the doors shut behind them, and he turns to find the silver gift bag Mal had handed to him resting on top of the sideboard. He looks up at Eames then, finally, and swallows hard at the blatant want in Eames eyes. The lighting here is subtle, but still brighter than in the car, and Arthur can see how wide Eames' pupils are, rimmed with a mere sliver of grey blue. 

Eames takes a step forward; Arthur doesn't move. His heart beats wildly in his chest, thumping so hard Arthur thinks his ribs will ache in the morning. Eames takes another step, then another, and then he's there, solid and heavy and kissing Arthur, hands gripping tight to his waist. Dimly, Arthur registers that he's moving, two steps back until his back hits the wall, and Eames' knee slips between his legs, grinds into his cock and Arthur moans, hands clutching tight to Eames' biceps for leverage.

They kiss for long minutes, not at all like how it was in the car. This is bruising, reckless; the wet sounds of tongues tangling, sharp teeth biting and nibbling, sucking and licking, and each of them taking. Arthur can't breathe, doesn't want to if it means stopping this, pulling away. Eames does anyway, forehead resting against Arthur's, chest crushing Arthur's as he gulps in air half made up of Arthur's exhales. 

Arthur wants to say something here, the words how and why stuck in his throat, but the careful way Eames is unbuttoning Arthur's shirt stops him, and Arthur thinks he understands just how fragile this moment is. How one wrong word could shatter it like so much glass. So Arthur bites his tongue (figuratively) and nips at Eames' chin (literally) and follows Eames' lead, tugging his shirt from out of his pants and flicking the buttons open with nimble fingers. His hands land flat on Eames' chest, soaking in the rich warmth, the sensation of skin on skin, coarse hair scratching at his palms. Eames is only a second behind him, having more buttons to fight with, and then they are chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis. 

Eames sucks at Arthur's neck, just over his pulse, using his tongue and teeth to worry the skin. He's not gentle, not that Arthur minds. He tips his head back, giving Eames more room, as his hands slide along Eames' sides, under his arms and around to his back, mapping every inch of the skin he's jerked off to countless times before. His thumb traces the ridge of a rib, then another. His fingertips brush over hardening nipples, down to defined abs and a narrow waist. The small of Eames' back is soft and dry; Arthur's hand fits in it perfectly.

Arthur whimpers when Eames pulls his leg away, cock aching and bereft without something to press against. But Eames is making his way down Arthur's body, sucking kisses into Arthur's chest and stomach, his tongue swirls around Arthur's belly button. Arthur's head drops without the support of Eames' hands there, his eyes drawn to the sight of Eames on his knees and panting over Arthur's cock. Even through two layers of cloth, Arthur can feel each damp gust. He spears his fingers through Eames' spiked hair, holding him in place.

With great care, Eames unbuckles Arthur's belt, slips the button of his pants open, and eases the zipper down. Tucking his pinky fingers into the waistband, right at the swell of Arthur's ass, he draws them down, skimming his fingertips along the way; eight points of contact that drag deliciously. In the dim light, his cock looks obscene, jutting out from behind white cotton. There's a damp spot at the tip and Eames zeros in on it with his mouth open, hands wrapped around Arthur's thighs. 

Eames' tongue is wet and hot, and the material clings awkwardly all along his cock, rough against sensitive skin. He teases at the crown, a light suction that makes Arthur's toes curl inside his shoes. His fingers grip Eames' hair tight and pull him off, and Eames looks up at him, eyelids heavy. "Right," he says, drawing out the 'r', and pulls Arthur's briefs down around his knees. His eyes are still on Arthur's as he licks a wet, filthy stripe along the length, circles the head, and sucks him deep. 

Arthur is suddenly starting to regret not having much sexual experience. His orgasm is winding tight in his belly and he knows he's not going to last long. Knows if maybe he could look away from Eames' obscene lips wrapped around him, he could stretch this out a little longer. But he can't, he _can't_. Eames bobbing up and down so slow, _so_ slow, his tongue tracing patterns along the length. His cock is slick-shiny from _Eames'_ mouth, his hot, wet mouth. Eames hums around him and Arthur whimpers, knows that's the end for him, except--

Except Eames wraps one hand around the base and squeezes. Sinks down until his lips meet his hand and Arthur startles, gripping Eames' hair tight against the need to thrust, to come. Eames looks up at him through the fan of his lashes and winks at Arthur, pulling off until just the crown is in his mouth and teases the slit with the tip of his tongue. Arthur's cock pulses and Eames smears the precome along Arthur's length with the flat of his tongue. 

With his hand still around Arthur, Eames drags his tongue along the crease of Arthur's hip, bites a kiss into the spur of it, then noses his way down, nipping at the delicate skin. Further down, he mouths at Arthur's balls, the tip of his tongue tracing along the seam. Dimly, Arthur registers Eames' palm on his ass, fingertips tracing along the cleft, slow and knowing. Arthur pushes into it, traps Eames' hand between his body and the wall, and Eames chuckles, low and dirty. 

He takes Arthur into his mouth again and starts bobbing up and down in earnest, keeping things wet and messy. Arthur's eyes keep flicking between the wet shine of his cock and Eames' glistening pink lips. Eames' hand starts to drag, still tight, up and down, and it feels like he's trying to pull Arthur's spine out, vertebrae by vertebrae. The only thing keeping Arthur standing at this point is the wall at his back and Eames at his front, and he groans low at the ache building, skittering across his nerve endings.

Arthur's hips begin to hitch, tiny, abortive movements that thrust him deeper into Eames' mouth. The head of his cock drags against the roof of Eames' mouth with each shove, and suddenly the hand on his is moving. Closer, fingers spreading Arthur open just enough so Eames can brush one against his hole, gentle and searching.

Arthur shouts Eames' name and comes without warning. Eames, for his part, doesn't seem to mind; pumps Arthur with his mouth and hand until he's empty. His free hand grips Arthur's ass, keeping him upright while Eames sucks him clean. He keeps going, long after Arthur is finished, and Arthur has to push him away, his sensitive cock twitching at every touch. With a kiss to Arthur's groin, just above the base of his cock, Eames eases Arthur's briefs up, about two seconds before Arthur sinks to his knees and ends up half in Eames' lap.

They both are panting, breathless, Eames with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Arthur, smiling, presses his thumb to the corner; there's a drop of come that Eames missed, and he pulls away to taste himself, but Eames is quicker. Wraps thick fingers around Arthur's wrist and swipes his tongue over Arthur's thumb, his lips follow. He takes it in all the way to the last knuckle, tongue flicking against the webbed skin there, and pulls off, humming.

Arthur sits up on his knees, slotting one in between Eames', and leans in for a kiss, wanting to see what he tastes like on Eames' tongue. Eames' clean hand sneaks around Arthur's back, underneath his open shirt and jacket, and pulls him close. Arthur can feel the heat of Eames' cock, hard and heavy, against his thigh; he presses closer and Eames groans. 

His hands scrabble at Eames' stomach, fingertips brushing over the gothic 'rf' tattooed there, to get at his pants, as clumsy as Eames was practiced. Arthur is trying to do this by feel, unwilling to pull out of the kiss and look down, but his fingers are still dulled from the orgasm and the zipper seems especially stubborn. Eames clasps Arthur's wrists, stilling them, and pulls away; kisses the corner of Arthur's mouth, his jaw, the skin under his ear.

"Have you done this before?" Eames asks, patient.

"No," Arthur says around a swallow. Then corrects himself. "Yes. Once." He frowns at the flickering memory of Jake , doesn't want it invading what he has here and now.

Eames seems to understand and rises up on his knees to open the zipper and push his pants and boxers down. Arthur's hands hang in midair, where Eames left them, until Eames sits back, and then they fall to his thighs. 

One hand reaches out to wrap around Eames, the skin blood-warm and damp in Arthur's palm. Eames' cock jerks at the contact, precome pearling from the slit and collecting in the foreskin. Arthur slicks through it with his thumb and Eames groans.

Arthur is careful at first, unfamiliar with how foreskin works. He keeps his hand loose and his rhythm slow, working Eames from base to crown. With a hand around Arthur's neck, Eames pulls him forward, pressing their cheeks together. Arthur wants to look down to watch, to make sure he doesn't do something wrong, but Eames nips at his earlobe to stop him.

"You have to feel it," he says, voice thick with need. "You'll figure it out." Then his hand closes around Arthur's, their fingers neatly slotting together, and he guides Arthur. Shows him how tight he should hold Eames, how fast he should go. How far the foreskin pulls back and where to drag the pad of his thumb to make Eames buck into the circle of his fingers.

The sounds Eames makes feel louder right against Arthur's ear, but he relishes each moan, each filthy word that is breathed into his skin. He slings his arm around Eames shoulders and pulls him closer, hides his smile in Eames' hair. 

Eames makes more noise than Arthur did. Broken sounds deep in his throat, seemingly ripped from him with each stroke, each pass of Arthur's thumb over the head. Arthur can hear the slick sounds they make underneath the steady litany of "Arthur, _Jesus_ Arthur," and Eames' hand is a tight fist at Arthur's back, pulling him close, keeping him still.

Eames bites down on Arthur's neck when he comes, teeth sinking into the soft flesh and making Arthur yelp. Eames' free hand cups the head, saving Arthur’s clothes from being ruined, if not his own as well. Arthur keeps stroking him, though, intent on getting everything from Eames, just like he did for Arthur.

Eames goes boneless, after, with his head tucked close to the curve of Arthur's neck, his hand resting carefully on Arthur's thigh. Arthur's knees ache and he's sure Eames' do too, and he wants to press in close, feel Eames stretched out next to him, but he can't move for the pants tangled around his legs, and he belatedly realizes he still has Eames' softening cock in his hand. Arthur lets go to skim sticky fingers over Eames' stomach, his sides. He lands soft kisses on Eames' ear, his neck, the downy hair at his nape. Arthur feels suddenly sleepy and Eames' heat does nothing to stop how cozy he feels, wrapped up in Eames. 

A shrill rings breaks the silence, overly-harsh in the awkward afterglow. Arthur recognizes it as his own ring tone and is confused by the volume. He reaches for the pocket of his jacket, expecting to find his phone. He doesn't. 

Eames is sitting up now, too, looking sleepy and disgruntled. Arthur gets to his feet first and pulls his pants up, then helps Eames to do the same. He leaves Eames to fish a handkerchief from his pocket and clean up his own hand as Arthur searches for the phone, finds it laying on the sideboard just as the last echo of the ringtone fades away.

"I thought I took this with me," he says, thumbing at the screen. Eames is behind him, hands on Arthur's shoulders, easing Arthur's jacket off as he leads him toward the stairs. 

Eames says, "I took it from you when you weren't looking," and suckles lightly at a spot just beneath Arthur's hairline. Arthur's free hand comes up to cup Eames' head and he moans, head dipping forward to give Eames more room.

"It's my mom," he explains, flipping the phone to speaker so they can both listen to the voicemail while they walk up the stairs.

" _I hope you had a wonderful time tonight, sweetheart. I'm sure you impressed everybody there. You always do_." Arthur smiles fondly at the pride in her voice, not yet registering the loss of Eames' mouth and hands from his body. " _I hope Mr. Eames is taking good care of you. I love you, Arthur_." It ends with two kissing sounds, then a robotic voice telling him what time the message was left. 

Arthur turns to Eames, chuckling. "I keep telling her it's just Eames, but she won't listen." Eames smile is smaller, more brittle, so Arthur wraps his arm around Eames' waist to kiss it away. Eames even lets Arthur guide them to the doorway of his bedroom. "I don't know about you," he whispers huskily into the shell of Eames' ear, "but I'm wiped." He tries to pull Eames into the room, but Eames doesn't move.

"I'm not going to sleep with you, Arthur," Eames says, voice a little strangled. His palms are on Arthur's shoulders, gently pushing him away. Arthur reluctantly allows it. 

"We don't have to do anything. Just sleep." Arthur holds his hands up, palms facing Eames. "I'll even promise to keep my hands to myself. Mostly." His grin tilts as he starts shrugging out of his shirt. 

Eames is leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets, eyes soft. "C'mere," he murmurs, and Arthur does. His slips one hand out to reel Arthur in by the neck and he leans in to kiss him, soft and slow and so gentle it makes Arthur's heart feel too full. Eames’ palm is warm, and his chest is solid against Arthur's, matching him heartbeat for heartbeat. His arms loop around Eames' neck on instinct, closing the space between them.

With one last feeble attempt at seduction, Arthur takes a step back and tries to pull Eames along with. He doesn't budge, though, and Arthur makes a small moue of displeasure, using all of his youngest child tricks to get what he wants. Eames remains stubborn, his voice firm when he says, "Good night, Arthur." The line of his shoulders is set, too, as he turns and walks away. 

Despite that, Arthur can't stop himself from grinning. He barely remembers to hang his suit on its hanger and slip his pajama pants on before crawling into bed. The sheets are cool on his heated skin, the complete opposite of how Eames' body felt, and Arthur falls asleep thinking about the texture of lush, pink lips and strong, broad hands.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur wakes up before his alarm goes off, eyes squinting against the sunlight, mind still clinging to the fading tendrils of his dreams. He smiles at the memory of them, tame compared to some of his Eames-shaped dreams, but more obscene in other ways. More real, too, was the wet heat of his mouth on Arthur's cock, his tongue teasing at the slit. His rough-skinned hands skimming up Arthur's thighs and groin to stop at Arthur's hips and pin him to the wall. How he tasted like come and sweat and champagne when he kissed Arthur and allowed Arthur to jerk him off.

He rolls out of bed, lets the sun warm his skin as he twists and stretches and yawns. Outside his window, the city is just starting to come to life. A handful of joggers pass underneath his window and Arthur feels the familiar itch his legs. Unfortunately, the running clothes he'd worn on the trip up are still in a wrinkled pile on the floor at the end of the bed.

In the bathroom, he goes through his usual routine; belly scratch, groin scratch, piss, wash his hands. He looks up then, to scan his face and run a damp hand through his hair, and that's when he sees it: a dark red smudge on his neck, fading to pink and yellow around the edges. It's not large, but it aches a little now that Arthur is reminded of it. Even more so when he turns his head or presses his fingertips to it.

He stares at it for a long time, remembering just how Eames' mouth felt against the skin there, how sharp his teeth were. His tongue laving over the spot only once. Arthur can't help but smile, and then he's shoving his pajama pants and underwear down over his hardening cock to get a good look at his hips. He smiles at the thumbprint bruises, the four fingerprints shadowing the curve of his ass when he twists to the left.

 _Not a dream_ , he thinks, giddy and horny all over again. His cock jerks, and he gives it a squeeze, reaches for a pump of the lotion on the vanity and strokes himself into full hardness. It doesn't take long for him to come, especially with the memory of Eames' lips, pink and filthy, wrapped around his cock. Arthur's gasping groan echoes, lewd, against the tiles in the bathroom and he rinses his hands and his cock and the sink down after. Before he can turn back to the bedroom, his gaze lands on the mirror -- on the imprint of Eames' mouth on his neck -- and a hot rush of panic wells up in the back of his throat.

He wanders around his room, straightening up his shoes and socks, Eames' cuff links tossed carelessly on the bureau, to burn off his of nervous energy. It's his first morning after, and he isn't sure how he's supposed to act; if he's allowed to touch Eames, to press in close and kiss him good morning. He knows that's what he wants, at least, but Arthur has so rarely gotten what he wants when it comes to sex and anxiety twists hard in his chest. Casting a sidelong glance at his clothes on the floor, Arthur sighs; going for a run would be a comfort now, a way for him to clear his mind before having to face Eames. But then he hears Eames pass by outside his door, which significantly narrows his chances of sneaking out without Eames noticing. Instead, he does a few dozen jumping jacks to try and shake the nerves. It works, for the most part.

He is still anxious, though, standing at the window again. His arms and legs feel jittery, and he casts a sidelong glance at his clothes on the floor. Going for a run would be a comfort now, a way for him to clear his mind before having to face Eames. But then he hears Eames pass by outside his door, which significantly narrows his chances of sneaking out without Eames noticing. Instead, he does a few dozen jumping jacks to try and shake the nerves. It works, for the most part.

Eames is at the table when Arthur gets there, showered and dressed and reading the morning's paper over a cup of tea. He doesn't look up at first, so Arthur leaves him to finish his article and fixes himself a cup of coffee. It isn't chilly in the penthouse, but the hot mug feels good clasped between his hands, and his sips carefully, watching the minute shift of the tendons in Eames' hand as he reaches for his tea and sips. He remembers in vivid detail how that hand felt on his body, his cock. Already, he feels it thickening.

"Good morning, Arthur," Eames greets, folding the paper closed and still not looking at Arthur. Arthur doesn't mind, really. From this vantage point, he can watch the play of muscles under sky blue shirt, the stretch of navy blue slacks around Eames' thick thighs.

Arthur never got a chance to explore those last night. One of the many regrets he hopes he gets a chance to fix tonight. Maybe.

Eames steps up to the sink at Arthur's side and rinses out his cup. Arthur can feel a curtain of damp heat around Eames, as if he just got out of the shower, and he leans into it a little; Eames' shirtsleeve drags over Arthur's bare arm and leaves goose bumps in its wake.

"There's been a bit of a schedule change, I'm afraid," Eames says, chipper, but distant. Arthur hides his frown behind his coffee. "Dom rearranged some of my interviews, so we'll be leaving this afternoon instead of tomorrow morning. Please have your things ready when I get back."

He heads for the sideboard to collect his Blackberry and the penthouse keys. "Eat anything you like," he continues, gesturing at the table and the half dozen platters of pancakes, French toast, bacon, and fresh fruit, among other things. "If you'd like something else, just call downstairs, they can have it delivered. I should be back around one." He tosses the last over his shoulder, standing in front of the elevator, still not having looked at Arthur.

Arthur has followed him, not entirely like a confused puppy, and stands at the edge of the foyer, where hardwood floor transitions to the kitchen's tile. "Eames," he says, half confused, half pleading. He doesn't mean for it to come out that way, but of all the ways he thought this morning would go, Eames not looking at him was not among them.

Arthur tries to write it off as mentally preparing for the day's worth of interviews Eames is about to do, but then Eames turns and sighs, "Yes, Arthur?" complete with heaving shoulders, and his gaze slides easily from Arthur's eyes to the mark on his neck. Even from a distance, Arthur can see his pupils are black. Arthur knows what that means in his head: that Eames is attracted to Arthur. The frustrating thing is, that knowledge doesn't jive with Eames' behavior. Even with the possibility that he is preoccupied.

"I just…" Arthur squirms, one hand fluttering about, wanting to act casual and cover up his naked torso at the same. Instead, he rewraps it around his mug and soaks in the heat, suddenly, achingly chilly. "I'll see you at one," he says, feeling more than a little lame.

Eames nods at the same time the elevator dings its arrival, and Arthur watches his back until the doors glide shut.

: : :

The drive home isn't any better. Arthur is a live wire, couldn't fall asleep if he wanted to, and Eames insists on playing the radio full blast, even with the top down. Every once in awhile, Arthur taps Eames on the arm and motions at his own ears and Eames turns the volume down a few decibels, but if they happen to slow down, he turns it right back up again. It makes it difficult for Arthur to concentrate on his new toy from Mal's gift bag; a sleek new iPad, leather carrying case included.

"She managed to get ten to auction off for charity," Dom had explained earlier that afternoon while Eames loaded their bags into the car. "Eleven, technically. She wanted to make sure you got one." It wasn't just the iPad in the bag, it also included matching bottles of Bvlgari parfum and cologne, an exquisite Tiffany watch, a gift certificate for a two-night stay at a bed and breakfast in Martha's Vineyard, and a signed hardcover edition of Eames' previous book. Arthur had nodded with a vague recollection of a table filled with other items for silent auction at the bookshop.

"Please be sure to tell Mal thank you for me," Arthur said, positive that he forgot to say it the night before. Dom nodded and shook his hand, and then Arthur turned to get settled in the car, leaving Eames to say his own good-byes.

Arthur has an iPhone, which isn't all that different from the iPad, but he's engrossed in the iPad anyway, if only because it's something to do other than sit in the car and angst like a sullen teenager over the change in Eames between him leaving Arthur and waking up in the morning.

He does a Google search of Eames' name, curious to see if there are any articles of the night before out yet, but not really expecting anything. Of course he would be proven wrong, getting half a dozen hits at the top of the list, all published within the last twelve hours. He selects one at random, and is greeted by a not-small picture of Eames, his arm around Arthur's waist.

Arthur studies himself first, the cut of his suit, the glint of silver and onyx at his wrists, his hair slicked back. He's smiling slightly, the shadow of a dimple cutting into the one visible cheek. His head is dipped down a little, his eyes closed, and his nose is a hair's breadth away from Eames'.

Eames, too, is smiling, leaning into Arthur as Arthur is leaning into him. Arthur can see the whiteness of Eames' knuckles, fingers gripping tight to his hip, and his other hand is clasped around Arthur's wrist. Arthur wraps his own fingers around the same spot, but they're slim and cool, soft. The exact opposite of Eames.

The caption underneath reads, " _Author Daniel Eames posing with his date, Arthur Cohen. Washington DC_ " Arthur freezes at the words, thumb hovering over the word 'date'. More than anything, he is shocked to see his name there; 'And friend,' would've made more sense. He's a nobody, especially next to Eames. But then he remembers Mal. The iron grip of her delicate hands, leading him from one group to the next, emphasizing his name just as much as Eames', and he smiles. Of course she would make sure he was credited properly. Arthur thinks he might be starting to understand what Eames meant about Mal liking projects.

He scans a few of the other articles he finds, some with pictures, some without. Some pictures have his name, others don't. Each article, though, is favorable. If not toward the book, then at least of Eames. Not that Arthur is surprised. Eames could charm candy from a baby without breaking a sweat.

But under it all, their picture remains open. Arthur's gaze falls on the top button of Eames' shirt, as if just by the power of his mind alone, he could make it open spontaneously and reveal the shadowed hollow of Eames' throat right there. Arthur licks his lips and remembers what that skin tastes like.

He remembers, too, how it felt to fit his body against Eames', like two puzzle pieces slotting together. How wide his hand was on Arthur's back. How _right_ it felt to have Eames' arm around him, have Eames watching him, aware of Arthur, even from across the room.

Or later, in the car, with Eames' hand in his hair and his lips so soft. Later yet, in their penthouse, with those same lips wrapped around his cock, plush and wet, shiny even in the dim light of the foyer. The velvety heat of Eames' cock and how wrecked he sounded growling out Arthur's name as he came.

Frustrated and confused and tired of Eames' silent treatment, Arthur tilts the iPad toward him and says, "We clean up well."

"Hmm?" Eames, of course, is focused on the road. Can barely manage to grant Arthur a look from the corner of his eye.

"Our picture," Arthur clarifies, bumping the back of his hand against Eames' knee to draw his attention to the screen. "I look good, right?."

Eames glances down, but only for a second. "Of course you do." He says it like Arthur just asked him if the sky is blue or the sun rises in the east; like it means nothing at all.

"You do, too," Arthur tries again, determined to start a conversation even if Eames is pushing the car to speed down US-29 at eighty miles an hour. Of course, Eames seems equally determined to keep up the charade and gives Arthur no reply.

"It's my first picture where I'm not a red, sweaty mess," Arthur tries one last time.

Eames finally turns to him, one eyebrow cocked. He looks fairly ridiculous, with his face half-hidden by his aviators, his bottom lip red and puffy from where he's been chewing on it. Yet Arthur is hit with a sudden swell of want deep and heavy in his gut. He wants to grab Eames face, push off his glasses, and force him to look Arthur in the eye. Force him to explain why he's acting this way.

Instead, he clarifies: "Cross country meets? I'm all hot and sweaty. Y'know, after the races." The explanation sounds lame, even to Arthur, but it's better than the _What did I do wrong?_ , that gets stuck low in his throat, slowly choking him.

"Right." Eames stares for one last moment, then turns the music up and pushes the car that much faster.

: : :

Despite his frustration and confusion, Arthur manages to doze off during the last hour of the drive and doesn't wake up until Eames hits the low spot in his driveway. He blinks away the ghostly fingers of a wretched dream, one where Eames backs him into a wall, hand working Arthur's cock through his pants and, just as Arthur is about to come, Eames walks away, laughing. The cruel twist of his mouth is burned into the backs of Arthur's eyelids.

Pulling into the garage, Eames murmurs a low, "Home at last," more to himself than to Arthur. Arthur bites back a bitter laugh and wonders to himself how being back at the cabin will be any different from being in the penthouse. Other than the location.

He follows Eames into the house, leaving half a dozen steps between them. Despite the circumstances, it does feel good to be home, in a place he's comfortable in. He dumps his duffel on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, slings his garment bag over the banister, and makes his way to the kitchen from where he can hear the clatter of a bottle cap hitting the countertop.

"Leave your suit out if you want," Eames says after taking a long pull from his beer. "I'll drop them by Mac's tomorrow."

Arthur nods but doesn't say anything. He can only watch Eames' Adam's apple bob with each swallow. Each tiny shift seems to stoke the fire in Arthur's gut, the part of him that's still the only boy in an all-female family, that's not used to not being paid attention to, even if the very last thing he wants is attention.

His gaze tracks Eames' journey around the kitchen as he opens and closes cabinets, the freezer, the refrigerator. "What do you feel like for dinner?" Eames finally asks, still not looking Arthur.

"I feel like talking." Arthur's voice is flat and he struggles not to cross his arms over his chest. He's not the one who should be feeling defensive.

Eames stills, one eyebrow arched, and focuses his attention on a point just beyond Arthur's head. "I believe that's what we're doing, Arthur. Unless I missed a memo?"

"I don't mean this small talk bullshit."

"Arthur--"

"We kissed." It isn't exactly what Arthur was thinking, but it's a better place to start than _What's wrong with me_.

Eames sighs, his whole body heaving with it, and leans back against the cabinet. His head hangs low, chin hitting his chest, and his arms cross, the beer tucked in the crook of his elbow.

"We kissed," Arthur says again, softer this time, almost pleading. "And you—we got each other off. Last night. You can't tell me I dreamed it. I have the proof." Eames gaze is still focused on the floor, but Arthur opens his oxford anyway, pulling the collar away from his neck to expose the mouth-shaped bruise there.

"I'm aware of what we did," Eames says to the floor.

"Then what happened between last night and this morning?" It's a struggle not to shout it, to not get in Eames' face and _make_ him look at Arthur. Quietly, almost hilariously, Arthur's phone chimes in his pocket.

"I sobered up." Eames swallows the last of his beer and turns to the sink, plants his hands against the counter and hunches over it.

Arthur's phone keeps ringing and his shoves a hand in his pocket to retrieve it. "You told me last night you weren't drunk."

There is a minute shift to Eames' shoulders, almost a shrug. "I was wrong. Are you going to answer that?"

Arthur glances at the display and frowns. "It's my mom." He swipes a thumb over the screen to send her to voicemail.

"You should answer it," Eames says, his voice unnaturally quiet.

"She can wait," Arthur says, searching for the thread of their conversation. Something is tickling at the back of his mind, feather-light yet important. He fiddles with the phone in his hands.

"I think she's waited long enough," Eames sighs. He spins away from the sink, and there's something in the movement, in the stiff line of Eames' shoulders that's setting off alarm bells for Arthur.

He darts forward to place a hand on Eames' arm, stopping him mid-step. "Wait, Eames. Is this about my mother? That's when you freaked out, isn't it? Last night? After she called." Arthur wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, one little phone call dousing a month's worth of smoldering chemistry.

"I'm fairly certain 'freaked out' is overstating it--"

"Well," Arthur drawls, "Considering you had my cock in your mouth before it happened, and now you can barely talk to me, let alone look at or touch me?" He shrugs and lets his hand drop. "I'd say 'freaked out' is being generous."

"I am not. Freaked. Out." Eames bites out, turning halfway so he can look Arthur in the eye. The icy fire in them should make Arthur pause, but it's more feeling from Eames than he's seen all day. It makes Arthur surprisingly bold.

"Then what about my mother calling had you turning off your libido like it was a light switch? 'Cause I know you wanted it, Eames. I _know_ you did." He shoves his phone back into his pocket to keep from crushing it in his fist.

Eames sighs and his whole body seems to deflate. Even the hard look in his eyes disappears, replaced with quiet resignation. "When you're here, when it's just us and we're discussing books or politics or, anything else, it's easy to forget how young you are."

Arthur snorts; it's undignified and, frankly, immature, but right at this moment, he doesn't give a damn. "I'm eighteen, Eames. Completely legal. Two years past, in some states."

"You don't automatically turn into an adult the second you turn eighteen, Arthur. Maturity comes with time." It seems that Eames is making up for lost time, staring Arthur down with flashing eyes. The weight of it settles on Arthur's shoulders, even as he continues to fight back, more confused than ever, with a hard, sour knot sinking low in his gut. Bright red neon flashes behind his eyes, warning him to stop pushing. He can't; he doesn't.

"I didn't know maturity was a prerequisite to having sex." It sounds bratty to his own ears, but he is too far gone, now.

"I didn't say that."

"Then what _are_ you saying?" Arthur winces at the brief, whiny waver in his voice.

"I'm saying that what I did last night was wrong."

Arthur goes very, very still. Even his lungs and heart seem not to work. "And you regret it." The words feel ripped from his throat, chased by the acid taste of bile working its way back up. He doesn't want to know the answer, not really, but that ship sailed about ten minutes ago.

Eames, to his credit, doesn't answer. He almost manages to seem guilty.

Arthur's hands are trembling and he wants to busy them with something, anything, just so Eames won't see. But the phone is back in his pocket and reaching for any old thing feels childish. He clasps them behind his back instead and says, "You didn't seduce me, you know. You didn't take advantage. I wanted it as much as you did. _Do_."

"Arthur, you said it yourself last night, you've never done anything like that before."

Arthur barks a laugh, the sound too loud in the empty kitchen. "You had just sucked me off, Eames. You expect me to be thinking clearly?! I'm sorry I didn't remember jerking Jake off when I was sixteen. I'll try to keep my wits about me the next time I'm fucking."

Eames winces and finally, _finally_ , his gaze slides from Arthur's. "Once, Arthur. That's not…That's once. And last night. Last night was different. The circumstances, the people, the alcohol—"

"Which _you_ handed to me, may I remind you."

" _Mal_ ," Eames continues, as if Arthur hasn't spoken. "Last night was special, and it's only natural that your feelings… That we…"

"Sex, Eames. It's called sex. And quit talking to me like I'm eight." He feels ridiculous finishing Eames' sentences, both too young and too old at once. The fight in him fades, but the anger is still there, making his blood run hot. His hands fall from the small of his back to curl up in fists at his sides. "It wasn't just last night, either. It's been… from the beginning, Eames. From the first fucking day."

Eames snaps, then. "Really, Arthur? You're going to give me the 'love at first sight' routine? You're only proving my point."

"I don't think you have a point."

"My point is that—Look. I get it, okay? You're young, you don't have a strong male influence in your life. It's only natural that you--"

Arthur's entire body stiffens and his voice drops to a rough whisper as he says, "If you even _think_ about telling me I have daddy issues, I will punch you in your face."

Eames sighs, a harsh, wet sigh that sounds almost ripped out of him. "Be that as it may, what happened last night was a mistake," he says, words clipped short in that maddening accent of his. He stands up straight, meeting Arthur eye to eye. "A mistake I won't be making again."

A small part of Arthur wants to follow Eames as he watches him disappear down the hall to his room. Wants to pin him against the wall and kiss him like they kissed last night and see. To see for himself and show Eames that no matter what he mouth says, his body tells another story. But the bigger part of Arthur, the part that was devastated by Jake's rejection before, is tired and broken, and it's this part that carries him up the stairs and to a fitful sleep.

: : :

Despite it being July and, typically, the start of the hottest, driest part of the summer, work at the nursery keeps Arthur busier than ever. Some is maintenance for the lake's wealthier residents, but the bulk of it is for commercial and industrial sites, most of which are at least an hour's drive away, if not more.

Arthur is rather grateful for it.

After their trip and subsequent "discussion," the atmosphere in the cabin is strained, to say the least. Downright painful would be more accurate. For as easy as it was between them before, it's just as difficult now; stilted conversation replaces companionable silences, aborted movements fill in the spaces where Eames used to rest his hand on Arthur's back or shoulder, his hip. And sometimes, when Eames tries to engage Arthur in a conversation about the latest political debate, Arthur wants to scream and rage and tell Eames he can't have it both ways.

Because it keeps him away from Eames, Arthur should be grateful for his extra time on the road to and from jobs, his early morning departures and late evening arrivals leaving little time for him to bump into Eames when he's not in the mood to. They are a bit of a double-edged sword, though. Especially if he's alone in the truck or his own car.

His mind sifts through everything that happened, checking and double-checking to see if there was anything he could've said or done to change Eames' mind. Arthur also wonders how he is going to get through the remainder of the summer without exploding from sexual frustration or awkwardness or both.

At the end of the first week, Arthur comes to the conclusion that his only choice is to leave. If not to save his sanity, then to save his heart. He hasn't had the chance to talk to Ariadne or Yusuf about it yet, but he's pretty sure they wouldn't object to having him as a house guest. Even if they only have a couch for him to sleep on, it's still better than spending the rest of his summer horny and miserable.

It's not like his mom would have to know, either. He only ever calls her with his cell phone, and it's highly unlikely she would trace his emails. It's out of character for Arthur to deceive his mother quite so blatantly, but it's not like he could tell to her what really happened, nor could he come up with a story awful enough to explain why he can't last the rest of the summer.

As for Eames and the fact that he's supposed to be helping Arthur build his career? Well, as much as Eames would probably be able to fulfill that promise despite the rather large bump in the road, Arthur isn't sure he could stand it. Besides, he still has three emails from Mal waiting for his reply. Maybe she could help with the networking, helping Arthur to avoid Eames altogether.

Eames had been right about her, taking to Arthur like he was some kind of project. Her attention should feel similar to the way his sisters dote on him, but it doesn't. Maybe because she hadn't known Arthur when he was in diapers. Maybe because she is European.

Probably it's because Arthur thought he might be a little bit in love with her. Somewhat.

The same day Arthur emails Ariadne to make sure they have room for him, Eames tells Arthur he'll be gone for the next five days to do a short press tour; a few radio shows, a barrage of TV interviews, and ten minutes on Good Morning America on Monday morning.

A smug little voice in Arthur's head says this proves just how much Eames wants him; that Arthur is so irresistible, Eames has to run away to keep from pinning Arthur to the bed and fucking into him like he so desperately wants.

The other part of Arthur, the sensible part, says this is a time-out for both of them; a chance to be apart and collect themselves. To reset their relationship to the beginning, to something more realistic.

Arthur decides he owes it to himself to give it one last shot. If he could get through Jake's rejection at the tender age of sixteen without much fallout, he can close himself off long enough to get through the summer, make the publishing contacts he was sent here to make, and get out with his heart mostly intact.

Eames leaves Arthur a copy of his itinerary, just in case, with the warning that everything is subject to change. He won't be leaving until the afternoon, but it's still long before Arthur will be home from work, and he's looking forward to having the house to himself. Of all the things he's given up since fighting with Eames, he misses playing Xbox the most; Eames' warmth beside him on the couch, Eames nudging his shoulder in playful ribbing, the smile on his face when he clears a particularly difficult level.

Arthur shakes the vision of it out of his head as he pulls into the driveway, headlights cutting through the falling darkness. Today had been an extra-long day of trimming trees with the crew and Arthur thinks he might have woodchips in places where they should never be. All he can think about is a cool shower and vegging out in front of the TV with the small selection of sushi he picked up at the market.

When the house comes into view, his mood falls instantly; the entire house, save for Eames' bedroom, is lit up, warm golden light pouring through its dozens of windows. Through the picture window in the living room, he can see the blue-white flicker of the TV.

After parking the car in its usual spot, Arthur sighs. The rest of his night might be ruined, but he can at least salvage his dinner. He feels sweaty and grimy, but he rounds the side of the house and a cool breeze from the lake revives him. It's not ideal, sitting in the dark to eat, but it's easier to put off avoiding Eames for a little while longer. Sushi in hand, he settles into a deck chair and allows himself to enjoy his dinner.

Once he's done and the stress of the day has mostly left his shoulders, Arthur makes his way inside for a drink. A full pitcher of tea sits eye-level in the refrigerator, but he reaches for a beer instead, popping the top and downing half of it in one go. He can hear the low murmur of voices from the living room, and he has to force himself not to sprint to get to the stairs.

He is so busy trying to look nonchalant, even going so far as to give Eames a smile and a wave, he doesn't realize it's not Eames on the couch until Ariadne shouts his name.

"You scared the crap out of me!"

"Ariadne, what the hell?!" He freezes at the sight of her, curled up on one end of the couch with a large bowl of popcorn in her lap. "How did you get in here?! _Why_ are you in here?!"

He's still searching for Eames as he takes a step toward her, arms stretched wide to hug her, then remembers he's still filthy from work. "Hold that thought. I'll be right back." Taking the stairs two at a time, he showers quickly, barely drying himself off after, and changes into his favorite pair of pajama pants and an old sleeveless t-shirt. Downstairs, Ariadne is where he left her, popcorn mostly gone, and he plops down beside her, wraps an arm around her shoulders and crushes her to his chest.

For the first time in a week, he is honestly thrilled to be home. As much as he's made friends at the nursery, gone out with them for pizza or to the movies or the local amusement park, it's Ariadne and Yusuf that know him best. He'd been too busy working and lusting after Eames to realize just how much he'd missed them.

"Arthur," Ariadne pleads, nose tucked dangerously close to his arm pit. "Can't breathe!"

He lets her go, but not very far, Her hair, when he presses a kiss to the crown, smells for coconut and the ocean. He takes a long breath of it, stopping only when his lungs ache. The rush of affection he feels for her right this second is somewhat overwhelming.

"What are you doing here?" he finally asks on an exhale, the force of it stirring her hair enough to tickle his nose.

She lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, the look on her face too innocent. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by."

"Ari."

"I'm here to rescue you."

"I'm pretty sure I can handle packing and driving on my own, Ari."

"Oh, Arthur." Not like that. Her face softens, then, into something fond and maybe a little sad. She reaches up to brush a damp curl of hair from his forehead.

Not yet ready to have the conversation she seems to be aiming for, Arthur grabs the popcorn bowl, says, "You need some more popcorn. Let me get that for you," and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Persistent as always, Ariadne follows right behind. "How'd you get in here, anyway? And where's your car?" Arthur asks in a valiant attempt to change the subject.

"Mr. Eames--"

"Eames." It comes out as more of a reflex, making Arthur wince. He's grateful he's facing away from Ariadne, at least, busy punching in numbers on the microwave.

"What?"

"Just Eames. No mister." He does't look away from the popcorn expanding in the microwave.

"Right," she drawls, making the word last about seven beats too long. " _Eames_ was getting ready to leave just as I got here. He had me park in the garage so you'd be surprised. Don't forget the butter."

Arthur shoots her a dark glare. "You didn't bring Yusuf with you?"

"Couldn't get the time off. Plus, I didn't think he'd be very helpful with this particular problem." She says it as an afterthought, too focused on making sure Arthur properly butters the popcorn to pay attention to what she's saying. Arthur nudges the bowl toward her once he's done and makes his way back into the living room, Ariadne right behind him. "He's too happy to let people live their own lives. Be their own people."

"As opposed to you," Arthur says, settling on one end of the couch. He's grateful that Ariadne sits on the other end. If they're going to have the talk she seems so insistent they have, he's going to need the space.

"As opposed to me. So, are you going to tell me what happened?"

"With what?"

Ariadne rolls her eyes. "You know exactly what." With one hand, she pops a kernel of popcorn in her mouth, with the other, she unpauses the DVD player.

Because Arthur is nothing if not a coward, he avoids answering her by looking at the TV. "Ten Things I Hate About You? Really?? You haven't seen this enough times yet?"

"It's either that or you tell me what happened." Her mouth tightens into a thin, firm line, her eyebrows arch.

Arthur huffs and fidgets for long minutes, digging into her thigh with his toes just to be annoying. About twenty minutes in, where the AV dork is letting some guy draw a dick on his face in permanent marker, he gives up with a huff. "Okay, okay. I'll tell you."

He leaves out the non-essential parts of the story; how nervous he was beforehand, how he had to tie Eames' tie and distract him from his own thought, how it felt a little like a date, not that Arthur had ever been on one to know enough what it would feel like. He tells her about meeting Mal and how lovely she is. How he had a short-lived fanboy moment where he didn't want to wash his hand after meeting Neil Gaiman. 

Then he gets to the part after the party. Kissing in the car, in the foyer, getting a _blow job_ in the foyer, jerking Eames off. He's told her some of this before in an email, and he may be leaving the pertinent details out now, but it's still hard to talk about with Ariadne right there in front of him, popcorn all but forgotten in her lap.

The day after is the hardest part to get through. Though he's still a little mad about the whole thing, about stubborn Eames is being, he's mostly confused and sad. And it all gets caught up in his throat, so that by the time he finishes, he can barely swallow around it.

Throughout Arthur's story, Ariadne had been leaning in closer and closer. So close, she almost tipped the bowl from her lap. Once Arthur's done, she exhales low, leans back against the couch and doesn't say anything for several minutes. 

Her voice sounds too loud in the cabin when she finally says, "Let me get this straight: you essentially spent the night making googly-eyes at each other, kissed in the car on the way home, then had sex -- more or less -- as soon as you walked in the front door? And it's a phone call from your mother that has him running for the hills?"

Arthur nods. "He won't admit to it directly, but yes. That's pretty much the gist of it."

"I think it's more than just your age, then. What do you know about his past relationships?"

"Not much. He doesn't talk about himself much. If I hadn't needed to know about Mal for the party, I doubt I'd know anything at all. Even the research I did on him before I came didn't tell me much."

"That doesn't sound ominous or anything," she says, frowning.

"It's not like he's a former mobster in hiding, Ariadne."

"Maybe he's not out?"

"Why would a call from my mother remind him of that?"

"Maybe he has mommy issues. Perhaps his own mother disapproves of his lifestyle? Or," she points at him, eyebrows arched. "He's secretly in love with her."

Arthur gives her a skeptical look. "An Oedipal complex. That's what you want to go with?"

"It's not like you've come up with anything better."

"There is one possibility you haven't come up with yet."

"What's that?"

"That he got what he wanted and now he's done with me." The words feel wrong as he says them, but the thought is something that has been eating at him for a while.

"Arthur." She says it soft and brushes her fingers over his knuckles. 

"It's not like it hasn't happened before," he says, still not looking at her.

"You ran away the last time, too." Her tone is no less hard, but the truth still stings, leaving a hollow feeling in Arthur's stomach.

"Technically, Jake ran away, not me," says Arthur, voice thick.

"You know what I mean, Arthur. It's not like you to give up."

He looks at her then, eyes sharp. "I don't want to linger where I'm not wanted, Ariadne."

"Oh, bullshit. You're doing the exact same thing you did when Jake left. You want to run and hide and keep yourself too busy to think about it. I _know_ you, Arthur."

"So what if I do, what's wrong with that? It got me salutatorian at graduation!"

"And that's, awesome, you know we're all proud of you for that, but..." she trails off, lost in thought. Then, tone softer, she says, "How far are you going to run this time? Is Delaware far enough? NYU?" 

Arthur doesn't know the answer. Or if there even is one.

"You can't hide from every heartbreak, Arthur," she continues. "You think all relationships are easy? I want to kill Yusuf for one thing or another on a weekly basis. And he feels the same about me. But that's what makes the good stuff worth it."

"I think you're presuming some things here if you want to call what Eames and I have a relationship."

"The word 'relationship' encompasses many things, Arthur. I don't necessarily mean a romantic one. But what if I do?"

"He's made it fairly clear that's not going to happen." Even though it's been a week, it still hurts to say it.

"Why does it have to be only about what he wants. You want him, right?" Arthur scowls. "Then you _get_ him!"

"Ah ha. Ha ha. _Ha_."

"I'm serious, Arthur. I know you're a seventy-four year old trapped in an eighteen year old's body, but you're hot. There's a reason he couldn't resist you. Especially if you were wearing that suit." Her eyes go unfocused and doesn't want to know what she's thinking about.

"Ariadne--" he means for his tone to be clipped, to snap her out of her daydream, but it sounds pleading instead. What, exactly, he's pleading for, Arthur isn't sure.

"No, listen," she says with a tiny shake of her head. "You panicked after Jake, I understand that, but you can't keep cutting yourself off at the first sign of disappointment. If you do, you'll be a lonely old man with thirty-seven cats. And that's too pathetic for even me to abide by. You are a generous, kind, _smart_ guy with an amazing heart, Arthur. You can't just hide it away. You don't deserve to be alone." 

She glances down in her lap, then, suddenly remembering her popcorn. Her hand freezes inches from her mouth, one kernel pinched between two fingers, and says as an after thought, "Plus, that ass."

Arthur ignores the last part. "You say that as if Eames and I are going to be together forever."

"I'm not saying Eames is the love of your life here, but what's so wrong with having a little fun? You're eighteen and you're _hot_. It's a crime you don't have a different guy in your bed every night of the week. Or the same one every night, if that's what you want."

He wants to believe her. He may only be eighteen, but he does get lonely, too, seeing the what other couples have. The closeness that Ariadne and Yusuf have, sharing their lives with each other. Arthur craves that. And, though he'd never admit it out loud, Ariadne is right: there is nothing wrong with having a little fun.

: : :

It's nice having Ariadne around, even if Arthur has to work for most of the time she's there. He shows her around the his nursery, takes her to the amusement park and introduces her to his friends, and gets her to unwittingly jump in the lake, just like he did on his first day. When she finally climbs out, Arthur isn't watching where he's standing and she takes advantage by shoving him in, fully clothed.

On her last day, Arthur takes her into town to show her some of his favorite places. She's much more stern with the Radigan boys than anybody else ever is; Arthur's pretty sure he's never seen them behave so well. He hopes Ariadne will only use those powers for good once she's an architect.

Walking back to Arthur's car, Ariadne spots the drugstore and drags Arthur in by his wrist, leading him down each aisle until she's found exactly what she's looking for: condoms and lubricant. Arthur quickly picks a few boxes to preempt her looming discussion and glares at her smug smile.

She leaves two days before Eames is set to come back, sun starting to rise in the east as Arthur hugs her in the garage. His arms are tight around her tiny shoulders, hands clasped over his elbows. Now that he's had her around, pushy though she may have been, he isn't quite ready to let her go again.

He pulls away, just enough to hold her at arm's length, and there's a knowing glint in her eye. Carefully, she pries his hands off her shoulders and holds them in her own.

"Just be yourself," she reminds him, like it's the answer to everything, and kisses him on the cheek. "And have fun."

Arthur watches her pull out, and follows behind in his own car. But at the end of the driveway, she turns left and Arthur turns right. Seconds later, she's barely a glint of dark blue in his rear view mirror, and then he's left alone with his thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

Not only does Ariadne's visit help bolster Arthur's spirits, she also doesn't leave without giving him advice on how to deal with Eames. Most of it isn't anything Arthur thinks he could use, but two ideas stick with him: "show some skin" and "make Eames jealous." Of course, Arthur is skeptical, especially about the second one.

"I'm not about to use people, Ari," Arthur says, giving her a reproachful look.

"How do you think I finally got Yusuf to make the first move?" she asks, not bothering to look ashamed.

Arthur blinked.

" _You_ , stupid! My head in your lap on the quad during lunch? Leaning over to whisper in your ear all the time. Little touches that meant nothing to you, but looked like something to him. Do you feel used at all?"

"I do now!"

Eventually, Arthur decided to leave that as a last resort. Especially since Eames hardly ever sees him with anybody else anyway.

The skin thing, however, he can do. Especially with the extreme July heat rolling in.

Due to a lack of rain and the oppressive heat, work slows considerably, leaving him time to do the work on Eames' yard he's been promising himself he'd do from day one. He makes an arrangement with his boss to borrow some equipment, lines up a delivery for the day after Eames returns, and gets to work.

The first day is all about clean-up and preparing. It isn't the best time to be planting new things, but the thick shade helps and Arthur makes sure to do as much as he can to give them the best start. That means removing dead stumps, cutting back invasive undergrowth, and doing some heavy duty tilling.

He stops about every half hour to get a drink from the hose, hoping he looks more relaxed than he feels as he gets water all over himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Eames watching him through the kitchen window, chewing thoughtfully. Arthur turns his back on him then and shifts his hips a little. The movement jostles his work shorts enough for them to slip down. Not a lot, but enough to reveal the waistband of his boxers and maybe a sliver of the red material, too.

Then, after he takes one last drink, he makes sure to douse his chest. He skims a hand over his stomach and up, rubbing the skin between his nipples. His back is still to the house, so Eames can't see, but Arthur is sure Eames has enough imagination to realize where Arthur's hand is in relation to the elbow he _can_ see. He feels silly, tweaking his own nipples like this, but keeping his goal in mind helps. A little.

Slicking a wet hand through his hair, Arthur drops the hose and turns to his other side. He looks up smiling, expecting to still see Eames in the window. He isn't there. Arthur's smile widens.

Later, Arthur isn't surprised to find Eames in his office. There isn't any work that needs doing in the garden outside that particular window, and Arthur figures Eames assumes it's the safest spot to get some work done. Arthur, of course, is a step ahead of him.

He's left all the equipment on the trailer in the driveway and only fetches what he needs and nothing more. Doing it this way takes Arthur twice as long to get any work done, but it also means he walks in front of the window twice as often. It's a fair trade-off.

Arthur works like that through the morning, relishing the burn in his muscles and the sweat rolling down his spine. He might be doing this mostly to drive Eames crazy, but Arthur also enjoys the feeling of a job well done, of being useful, and there's nothing that can ruin that.

Not even Eames pointing out to Arthur that he never asked for the work to be done in the first place.

"I know you didn't," Arthur says after taking a long gulp of Iced Tea. "I want to do it. My way of saying 'thank you' for taking me in this summer."

Eames studies him, a long, lingering look that slides from Arthur's head all the way down to his toes, then back up. "Did it occur to you I might like my garden just the way it is?"

Arthur shrugs, takes another sip of his tea. "Not really." He tries to maintain a straight face under Eames' weighted stare, but it's a close thing. And he's pretty sure he isn't imagining the ghost of a smile curving Eames' lips when he walks away.

The afternoon consists of hauling things: soil amendments, plants, and debris. This means more walking in front of the office windows, but on the few occasions he does glance up, Eames isn't there. Nor is he in the kitchen windows. And though Arthur would like nothing more than to make a loop around the front and see if he can find Eames, it would seem too suspicious, and he feels obvious enough as it is.

Arthur works until the sun starts to set and the mosquitoes come out for their dinner. He feels grimy and gross, dirt and dust embedded in every crease of his skin. In the driveway, he rolls up on his toes and stretches his arms over his head, wallowing in the pull of his tendons and ache in his muscles. He thinks about the shower he's minutes away from, but something itches at the back of his mind, like there's an opportunity he is going to miss.

He rounds the end of the house, crossing and uncrossing his arms around his chest, and the lake glints pink-gold in front of him; Arthur's idea sharpens around the edges. His hands fall to his shorts, thumbs hooking in the waistband, and push them further down with each step. He kicks them off at the edge of Eames' lawn and runs for the lake, diving in head-first in one smooth glide.

Skinny dipping isn't something he's ever done before and even though the water is cold, it feels glorious to be wrapped up in it, feeling both exposed and hidden at the same time. He floats on his back, too tired to do laps, and watches the no-see-ums flit around just out of reach, dark pin-pricks in the softening light.

Eventually, his eyes slip closed and he laces his fingers together on his stomach. After long, languid moments with only the wet slap of water interrupting his peace, Arthur's stomach starts to grumble, and he slips under the water one last time, propelling himself toward the wall with a lazy kick of his legs. He is still a generous distance away from the sea wall as he surfaces and wipes the water from his eyes, but he could spot Eames' body from any distance; Arthur grins.

Eames slows to a stop just a few feet from where Arthur thinks he left his shorts and boxers. He is dressed for a run, basketball shorts hanging low, the ever-present t-shirt hanging from his waistband. His hands fall to his hips and his head drops, looking to all the world like he's trying to catch his breath. But Arthur sees the slight slant of his neck, Eames' gaze on the grass, and then he turns to scan the water.

He waves; Eames doesn't wave back.

Arthur feels a renewed strength surge through him, enough to close the distance between him and the wall in short minutes. Pulling himself up the ladder is a little more difficult, but he focuses on Eames watching him, revealing more and more of his body with every rung he climbs. Arthur is sure if he hadn't been in freezing cold water only moments before, his cock would be half hard just from the adrenaline flooding through him, making his heart pound too hard in his chest. Instead, a strengthening night breeze is making Arthur fight against the instinct to cover himself.

Once on land, Eames gives Arthur one long look, pausing for a few extra seconds on Arthur's groin, then fixes resolutely on his face. Arthur doesn't linger; his teeth are starting to chatter and the mosquitoes seem to find him particularly delicious. Without saying a word, he wraps a hand around Eames' wrist and leans down to get his shorts. Eames doesn't move. Arthur can feel the thud of his pulse under his fingers and squeezes once before heading inside.

Later, after dinner, Eames stops Arthur from going upstairs with a hand on his shoulder.

"I know what you're trying to do," he says, voice low and eyes dark.

Arthur keeps his face blank and his eyes wide, palms open and facing Eames. "What do you mean?"

Eames stares at him for several heartbeats, fingers digging hard into Arthur's collarbone. Arthur is pretty sure Eames is trying to make him sweat, collapse under the guilt. The problem with that is, Arthur doesn't feel guilty. At all. He isn't going to strut around naked until Eames finally gives in, but he isn't going to lock himself up in his tower, either. If Eames wants to live like a monk, Arthur tells himself, that's Eames' problem.

Arthur looks Eames straight in the eye, waiting. His lips twitch, wanting to curve into a smile and Eames' gaze drops to them. It's just a flicker of his eyelashes, but it's enough.

"Good night, Eames," Arthur says, gently prying Eames' hand from his shoulder. 

Eames is gone by the time Arthur reaches the top of the stairs.

: : :

A new installation comes in, stalling Arthur's plan for the next few days. They're working around the clock to get it done before a tropical storm crawls up the coast, forcing everybody inside until the storms die down.

Arthur decides to set aside his 'show some skin' plan and instead uses the time to re-establish the relationship he had with Eames from the get-go; the one where they could talk about anything and everything, poking and prodding at each other in new and inventive ways.

Eames seems wary at first, staring at Arthur with a keen eye, keeping the length of the kitchen between them, but Arthur walks around half-dressed only as often as Eames does, and doesn't try to approach Eames if it looks like he doesn't want to be. So, by the end of the week, he is nearly back to his old self. Including, occasionally, spearing his fingers through Arthur's hair if he walks by Arthur sitting at the kitchen table.

(The first time it happens, they both stiffen, Eames' fingernails scratching light at the crown when his hand starts to curl into a fist. Arthur relaxes first, not saying a word. Eventually, Eames' hand follows through and he walks away as though nothing happened.

After that, the awkwardness settles.)

Once the rain has mostly moved on, Arthur is called back to work. It's an all hands on deck situation: the nursery is in a small state of chaos and their clients are calling, one after another, to hire them for fallen branch and tree clean-up. It's still windy, though. Too much for Arthur to try and keep his tiny car on the road. Eames volunteers to drive him in and decides, after, to stick around the grocery store and help Harry sort through any spoiled stock.

Eames is waiting for Arthur at the nursery at the end of the day. Arthur seems him talking to Jason, the nursery's owner, as he pulls into the parking lot. He only gives Arthur and the truck his in a brief look, not once interrupting his conversation with Jason. Beside Arthur in the truck, Dylan is singing along (badly) to "Livin' on a Prayer."

Later, Arthur will decide if it hadn't been Dylan in the truck, the person Arthur feels most comfortable with at the nursery, Ariadne's voice wouldn't have popped into his head. But it does, and though his gut twists, Arthur is reminded of her advice about trying to make Eames jealous, and this seems to be the perfect opportunity.

Dylan makes it easy, too. He's not gay and Arthur doesn't think he'd be interested in Dylan even if he was gay, but there's an easy rapport between them, almost as easy as the one Arthur shares with Eames, so it doesn't seem out of place for Arthur to give him a wide, flirty smile, tuck a lock of Dylan's hair behind his ear. Let his hand linger a beat too long on Dylan's back when they fold each other into one of those manly hug-slash-back slaps.

Dylan leaning in to whisper to Arthur about how good Layla's ass looks in her shorts doesn't hurt, either.

Arthur can't be sure if Eames is watching him. He doesn't even want to look out of the corner of his eye, afraid he'll be too obvious. But there's a tingle at the base of his spine, the same thing he feels every time he manages to catch Eames watching him.

Eames remains quiet all through the drive home, even going so far as to keep the radio volume low, which Arthur is okay with because even with the heavier car and the winds finally starting to die down, it's nearly dark and Arthur wants all of Eames' concentration on the road.

His silence breaks once they reach the house, Eames heading straight for the kitchen, expecting Arthur to follow suit.

"How come you never have any of your friends over?" he asks, getting them each a beer from the refrigerator. He looks almost uninterested, leaning one hip against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. 

"Ariadne was here just the other week."

"And she was very lovely, but what about the friends you've made at work?"

"How do you know I've made any friends at work." Arthur doesn't quite look him in the eye, choosing instead to take a long pull from his beer.

Eames arches his brows. "Other than you talking about them? I _can_ see with my own two eyes, Arthur."

"Are you spying on me?" It sounds silly, even to his own ears, but there's no taking it back. Arthur can only hope to hide his wince.

"Yes, Arthur, I follow your crew truck around in my ridiculously inconspicuous convertible." Arthur doesn't look at Eames to see the face he's pulling. " I'm talking about the young man you were with earlier."

"Oh, Dylan."

"He has a name! Brilliant!"

Arthur shrugs one shoulder and digs into the refrigerator for a beer. "He's just a guy I work with, Eames. No big deal." Eames grabs the beer from Arthur with the bottle barely an inch from his mouth.

"You should invite him over for dinner, let me meet him." He winks at Arthur as he takes a sip.

"Why on Earth would I do that?"

Eames hands the bottle back and slings an arm around Arthur's shoulder to lead him out to the deck. "I know it's hard to believe, but I was a young man once, too. Is it so wrong of me to want to help you out?"

"No," Arthur drawls, skeptical. It feels too easy, Eames giving him this blatant opportunity. "Let me think about it?" he says, turning to head for the stairs and a shower, handing Eames the bottle of beer on his way.

After dinner, while they're playing Call of Duty, Arthur reintroduces the subject. "How about if I invite more people than Dylan over for dinner?"

Eames pauses the game and turns to Arthur, a sly smile tugging at his full lips. "Arthur," he purrs, suggestive. "I know you're not that shy."

"Who said anything about being shy?"

"Can't have the first dinner at home a romantic one-on-one thing, yeah?"

Arthur ducks his head to hide his smile, but he feels his ears pinking. "Something like that."

"Safety in numbers, then. We can grill out. This Saturday. Invite anybody you want. It's been awhile since I flirted with a girl. I hope I'm not getting rusty." Eames winces at a missed shot on screen, then adds, "Oh, and have everybody bring a swimsuit. There will be no shenanigans on my watch."

: : :

The day of the barbecue dawns hot and humid, perfect for spending most of the day in the water. And even though the weather is almost oppressive, making the floor inside the house sticky despite the air conditioner running, Eames is in a cheerful mood, which puts Arthur in a good mood.

In all, a dozen of his coworkers show up, a healthy mix of both boys and girls. Eames, as usual, is utterly shameless with the girls, walking around in a faded pair of cargo shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. Though the girls eat it up, Arthur chastises him a few times for his posturing, but not too much; he's enjoying the show for himself, too.

Once Arthur and his friends get into the water, however, Eames is all but forgotten amongst the laughing and screaming and the boys trying to dunk the girls. 

At one point, Dylan paddles past Arthur, his trunks grazing Arthur's fist, and it give him an idea. Gripping the material, Arthur slips under the water and tugs hard, pulling them off in one quick movement before Dylan becomes aware of what's going on. From there, it's a simple childish game of keep away, which everybody is more than happy to participate in.

After a handful of minutes, Dylan decides to give up and swims well away from the group and they all let him. He seems happy to float on his own, Arthur glancing over every so often to keep an eye on him. 

As the sun starts to set, Eames appears on the edge of the sea wall to let everybody know dinner is ready. Dylan's shorts are at his feet and Eames flings them into the water for Dylan to put on before he gets out.

Arthur is the last one out, just behind Dylan, who is singing the praises of skinny dipping and suggesting they all try it once it's dark. Arthur, feeling bold and relaxed, slings an arm around Dylan to draw him close enough to knock their heads together and says, "Good plan. Nobody will be able to see me biting it, then."

They eat dinner around a bonfire Eames builds in the middle of the yard, away from the trees and shrubs. The heat it gives off isn't necessary, but the smoke keeps the bugs away, so they sweat it out, Dylan settled on the ground next to Arthur, Eames nestled between Jackie and Layla on a bench.

Now that he has a few beers in him, Eames is an obnoxious flirt, going so far as to thicken his accent. Their smiles seem permanent and they can't take their eyes off him, but Arthur's okay with it. He can tell the difference between Eames wanting to get in their pants and Eames making them _think_ he wants to get in their pants.

And, every once in awhile, Eames glances over the fire at Arthur and smiles, flames dancing in his eyes. Arthur grins in return, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks, then turns back to the story Dylan is telling and laughs in all the appropriate places.

As the night wears on, Arthur feels himself relax into Dylan's body, the fire and beer making him feel cozy and a little handsy. Dylan, for his part, rolls with it. It makes Arthur wonder so much, he eventually whispers to him, lips grazing the shell of his ear, "Are you sure you're not gay."

Dylan chuckles, low, and tightens the arm around Arthur's waist. "Only for you, Arthur. Only for you." In that moment, Dylan feels a little like the brother Arthur never had. Especially when he kisses Arthur's cheek, wet and messy, adding a loud smacking sound at the end. In that same moment, Arthur finds Eames in one of the chairs on the deck, face barely lit by the fire from below. His face is inscrutable, eyes black and half-closed. He looks to all the world like he's drifting off to sleep, but Arthur knows better. And that knowledge shoots straight to his cock.

For as comfortable as Dylan may be with Arthur draped all over him, Arthur's pretty sure he wouldn’t be as okay if he saw the growing tent in Arthur's pants. Luckily, the sky over the lake is inky black and Arthur is in sudden need of a cold shower. Or dunk, as it were.

He drags Dylan up by his hand, Katie too from the other side of him, then takes off for the lake, kicking his trunks of as he goes. The lake does the trick, cutting off an erection before it can really get started, and he swiftly swims away from the wall, before he can get crushed or drowned.

They don't stay in the water long; it's late and Eames is keeping a sharp eye on them, considering they all have alcohol in them. The heat from the fire warms them up and dries them off once they're out, and Eames insists they all spend the night, just in case. "Girls in my room, boys in Arthur's room," he teases with a wink.

In the morning, Eames is up before all of them, coffee pot at the ready. Arthur stumbles down last, right behind Dylan and clinging weakly to the hem of his t-shirt. With his blurred eyes, it's the only way he can safely navigate his way to the kitchen without breaking his neck. Of course, there is only one spot left at the table, and since he is a gentleman and, for all intents and purposes, not a guest in Eames' home, Arthur lets Dylan have the chair and ends up leaning against the counter next to Eames, mug in hand, quite by accident.

"Thanks for this," he says after several healthy gulps of coffee, nudging Eames in the shoulder with his own. Eames is little more than a blur in the sunlight, but Arthur can see the dark line of his glasses around his eyes, proof that Eames isn't really much better off than the rest of them.

Eames hums in reply and says, "Looks like it worked, yeah?" He nods at Dylan, who glances at Arthur at that exact moment, smiling.

Arthur smiles back, but his heart isn't exactly in it. "We'll see."

: : :

Three days later, Arthur is at a stand still.

Eames hasn't made a move. At all. Not even the constant low level of flirtation he usually maintains with Arthur. It's frustrating and tiring and it's all Arthur can do to keep himself from emailing Ariadne, telling her he's tried and failed and it's time for her to get the couch ready for him.

He gets home on Friday sore and antsy and grateful to be done with working ten days straight. The shower manages to loosen up most of his knots, but there's still a slight buzz to his skin, like he's hooked up to a low level current.

Eames isn't anywhere in the house when Arthur comes down, but his car is in the garage, which means he's either in the vegetable garden or out for a run. Arthur is slightly disappointed to find the garden empty, and decides to lose himself in making a salad for dinner with some of the leftover steak from the night before. The repetition of chopping vegetables is soothing and seems to settle his nerves.

His mind drifts as he eats, replaying his conversations with Ariadne over in his head. It had seemed like good advice at the time, semi-logical if also somewhat manipulative. But now, after three days of Eames' aloofness, Arthur is starting to second guess himself.

He cleans up his mess by rote, not registering that he's on autopilot until he's upstairs and flipping open his laptop. An idea is starting to coalesce, faint, and he drums his fingers on his leg. The Google homepage stares back at him, waiting, cursor blinking faithfully in the text box. Arthur types in "how" and stops. 

There is, he thinks, no way to ask Google for what he wants. Partially because _Arthur_ isn't even sure what it is he wants. Well, in a base way, he does; he wants whatever it was he and Eames had before, that familiarity and ease and chemistry that led to kissing and a fucking awesome blow job. 

What he wants is to not be cast aside simply because of his age. 

Before he can come up with something to search for, a Google chat window pops up on Arthur's screen.

 **Yusuf:** : fancy meeting you here

 **Arthur:** : What's up?

 **Yusuf:** : hiding from ariadne. she wants to go waterskiing again.

 **Arthur:** : Sounds like fun.

 **Yusuf:** : my forearms don't agree.  
how're you doing? haven't heard from you since ariadne came back.  
you get in eames' pants yet?

 **Arthur:** : She wasn't supposed to tell you about that!

 **Yusuf:** : she tells me everything, Arthur  
i take it that means it's not going well.

 **Arthur:** : No, it's not.

 **Yusuf:** : and i suppose you're ready to give up  
ready for our couch?

Arthur's hands are poised to type 'yes,' fingers twitching for the keys, but Yusuf barrels on like he already knows the answer.

 **Yusuf:** : i'm not going to let you.

 **Arthur:** : What?

 **Yusuf:** : you can't stay here.

 **Arthur:** : That's kind of cruel, don't you think?

 **Yusuf:** : it's for your own good

 **Arthur:** : And you're the one to tell me what's good for me?

 **Yusuf:** : if ariadne can do it, i can do it

 **Arthur:** : Ari's known me since she was four. There's a bit of a difference.

 **Yusuf:** : details. i'm tired of Arthur the monk. it's unnatural.

 **Arthur:** : I am, too. Really. But he's not responding to anything and...

 **Yusuf:** : and what?

 **Arthur:** : I don't know what I'm doing, okay?  
It's not like I can just walk into his room, straddle his lap, and order him to fuck me.

 **Yusuf:** : why not?

 **Arthur:** : Because

Arthur's fingers falter over the keys as he tries to come up with an excuse. Again, Yusuf answers before he can come up with one.

 **Yusuf:** : because isn't an answer  
i thought you said this guy had an age issue?

 **Arthur:** : He does

 **Yusuf:** : and let me guess, ariadne told you to make him jealous, to show as much skin as possible and basically frustrate the hell out of him until he gives in?

Arthur pauses, but his answer, obviously, is yes.

 **Yusuf:** : arthur, ariadne is an 18 yo girl. eames is a 30-something man  
is it at all possible that your playing games is only making things worse?

Arthur's head falls back on a sigh. It makes sense in an obvious way; Eames seems like the type of guy who wouldn't have played games even as a teenager, either. Other than Arthur, he's the type of guy who would go after whatever it is he wanted and take it, whether it was for the taking or not.

Movement flickers in the corner of his eye and he turns his head to look out the window. Eames is there, slowing to a stop on the sea wall. His back is bare and heaving, and with it brings a white-hot flash of clarity.

Arthur slams his laptop shut and jogs down the stairs, heading straight for Eames' room. His arms and legs are buzzing, all nervous energy mixed with anticipation and giddy relief. The decor of the room doesn't even register around the thoughts whizzing through his head; mostly of how stupid he's been, less about what he'll do if this doesn't work, how he'll definitely have to stay with Ariadne and Yusuf for the rest of the summer if it doesn't. 

He's only been sitting on the bed for a few minutes before Eames walks in, sweaty and still gasping for air. A water bottle dangles from his fingertips, the other holds a t-shirt Eames uses to mop his face. He stops a handful of steps into the room, once he sees Arthur, and stills. The hand with the shirt lowers to his side.

"What are you doing in here?" Eames asks, cautious.

Arthur leans back, propping himself up on his hands, attempting a nonchalance he doesn't feel. "Waiting."

"For?"

Arthur looks him up and down once, slow. On the way back up, he allows himself to follow a drop of sweat that works its way along Eames' stomach, skirting around his navel, to end up soaking into the shorts. There's a moment where he aches to trace the same path with his tongue, but he drags his gaze up instead and locks eyes with Eames for a beat before he says, "You."

Eames takes a step forward, pauses, then heads for the bathroom instead, giving the bed a wide berth. "Arthur, I told you--"

"You told me nothing, actually," Arthur butts in, before Eames can gather a head of steam. "Don't think I didn't notice." Arthur hears Eames turn the shower on then off again, and gets up, stands in the doorway with a hand firmly planted on either side of the door frame. Eames gives him a dark look that makes Arthur's gut flip, but he doesn't move. "You danced around anything you wanted to say and let me jump to my own conclusions."

"We're not doing this, Arthur," Eames growls, forcing his way through Arthur's arm.

"Yes, we are."

"Just because you say so, yeah?" Eames says it over his shoulder, attention instead on the bureau drawer and his clean clothes.

"No," Arthur says, standing a few feet end of the bed. "Because _you_ say so. You can tell me you can't until you're blue in the face; blame it on my age or your age or the full moon or because sodomy is illegal. But none of that means you don't want to."

Eames hand stops with a clean t-shirt clenched in his fist and looks over his shoulder at Arthur. Voice quiet, he says, "What if I told you I don't want to?"

"I wouldn't believe you." Arthur hopes he only imagined the waver in his voice.

Eames approaches Arthur then, finally. He radiates heat and smells like the sun. Arthur wants to tuck his nose in the hollow of Eames' throat and breathe it in forever. This close, Arthur's fingers itch to touch. He lick his lips; Eames tracks the movement.

"Just like that?" Eames says, voice gone dry.

Arthur swallows. "Just like that."

They stand there for long moments, only the space of a breath between them, Eames watching Arthur with eyes gone dark, hooded. The sun is setting, turning everything a deep gold and deepening the shadows. In this light, Eames' lips, slightly parted, are an obscene pink, lush and damp, parted enough for Arthur to see the edge of Eames' crooked tooth.

Arthur's hand lifts on its own, fingers threading through the wet hair at Eames' nape, and pulls him in for a kiss; it is as chaste as their first, merely a soft press of lips. Eames is stiff against Arthur's body, hands clenched tight at his sides as Arthur pulls away. There is a second, a brief flutter of panic in Arthur's chest that this, too, will fail. Eames, with his eyes closed, hardly seems to be breathing, but then there is a loud inhale and Eames' hands land on Arthur's waist to reel him in.

Eames wraps himself around Arthur and _kisses_ him, mouth wide and wet and warm. He kisses Arthur like he's angry, like he's got something to prove, all teeth and tongue. Like if he overwhelms Arthur enough, Arthur will realize he is in over his head and give up. 

Arthur _is_ overwhelmed, but not the way Eames probably means for him to be. Being surrounded by Eames, like this, smelling the salt-sweat scent of him, his skin slick and smooth, is almost too much. Arthur wants to focus on every little detail, but it's too much and absolutely perfect. 

After a subtle shift of his legs, Arthur feels Eames' knee between his thighs, thick and insistent, pressing against his hardening cock. Arthur's gasp gets lost in Eames mouth as he nudges Arthur back toward the bed.

Eames keeps trying to pull back, trying to get air, but Arthur follows, eager. Something in Arthur's chest tightens each time Eames does it, fear that Eames is changing his mind, but then Arthur's mouth lands on Eames' neck, his collarbone, and that panic is quickly forgotten in favor of the skin under his lips, the curl of tattoo he's been wanting to trace since the very first day.

Arthur works his way up Eames' neck, dragging his teeth through the day's growth of stubble there. He likes the rasp of it in his ears, decides he wants to know the difference in the sound of it scratching against his cheek. Eames tries to pull back, hissing, but Arthur tightens his fingers in Eames' hair, pulls him closer until they're pressed together from groin to chest to cheek.

"Beard burn," Eames warns, voice rough. His thigh keeps grinding into Arthur's groin, making Arthur's vision blur.

"Fuck _yes_ ," Arthur replies, nipping at the hinge of Eames' jaw.

"You better be goddamn sure," Eames growls, a little choked, a lot desperate. His hands flatten against Arthur's body to slip under the back of his shirt, betraying his good intentions.

"I am, fuck, _fuck_ ," Arthur says, almost a sob, and rubs his entire body along Eames'. He barely has the words out before Eames is peeling Arthur's t-shirt off and tossing it over his shoulder.

Between one shuddery breath and the next, Arthur is on the bed, on his back, Eames looming large in the space between Arthur's knees. Arthur props himself up on his elbows, watching Eames study him, and he hooks a foot around Eames' knee to keep him close. Not that it would do any good, Arthur understands in a vague sort of way, but his skin is tingling and his lips are numb and Arthur is pretty sure his limbs are operating under their own volition at this point.

Eames' shorts slip a little as he knee walks his way onto the bed, nylon pulling tight with the spread of his thighs. Arthur's gaze flicks between the sharp grooves of Eames' hips and the thick erection straining at the seam. He also takes in the line of hair under Eames' belly button, and Arthur's memory flashes back to that night, to how rough that hair was against the back of his knuckles. He reaches for it again, fingers dipping into the waistband of Eames' shorts, only to be stopped by a tight band of fingers around his wrist. Eames collects the other hand, then pins them both to the bed above Arthur's head with one hand and whispers into Arthur's mouth, "Not yet," right before he kisses him again.

Eames, admittedly, is a fantastic kisser, exploring every inch of Arthur's mouth with his tongue, kissing and kissing Arthur like Eames will never get enough. But now that Arthur has Eames here, pinning Arthur to the bed with his weight, Arthur can't stay force himself to stay still and let Eames take. He starts to roll his hips in the same rough rhythm as Eames' tongue. Eames shifts with the movement and ends up settling between Arthur's thighs. Arthur gasps at the new position, the weight of Eames' cock against his own; it's not enough, not even close. But then Eames grinds down into it and Arthur whimpers, precome slicking the inside of his boxers.

Eames pulls his head up, lips brushing Arthur's, and says, "Keep them there, yeah?" Dazed, Arthur nods, not knowing what Eames is talking about and not caring very much that he doesn't, but then Eames squeezes Arthur's wrists and lets go so that he can lean on one elbow and palm Arthur's hip with his free hand.

He moves on from kissing Arthur to explore his jaw and neck, the sharp jut of his collarbone. At the same time, his palm smooths up and down Arthur's side, tickling over Arthur's ribs, thumb grazing the nipple. The higher his hand gets, the higher Arthur's hips lift, off the bed and into Eames' heat, over and over and over again. Arthur's hands, though, never stray, fisted in the pillows he can barely reach. Each sweep of Eames' hand sets Arthur's skin on fire, blood simmering in his veins. Through the lust haze, Arthur barely registers the words coming out of his mouth. The pleading -- "Eames, c'mon. Please just _fuck_ me" -- would turn Arthur's cheeks fire engine red if they weren't already flushed from Eames' stubble and lavish attention.

Dimly, Arthur feels Eames shushing him, rushed exhalations in between warm, sucking kisses to Arthur's throat and chest. His Adam's apple, too. Eames' free hand is at Arthur's shoulder before it trails down, fingernails catching on Arthur's nipple, to search for the button of Arthur's shorts. He flicks it open with no problem, but the zipper is more challenging one-handed, and Eames curses, bites the ball of Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur's laugh is a little thready, a lot desperate. He wiggles his hips, squirming out from under Eames' bulk in an attempt to slip the shorts over his slim hips through sheer will and friction, careful to keep his hands where Eames left them. Giddy, he looks down at the space between them and is relieved to see the head of his cock poking out from the waistband of his boxers, framed by the vee of his shorts. A bead of precome shines at the slit, thick and clear.

"Brilliant," Eames rumbles into the crook of Arthur's neck. Something like pride swells behind Arthur's ribs and he turns his head to claim Eames' mouth, pelvis thrusting into Eames' palm in a not-so-subtle gesture.

"Fuck me," Arthur says again, punctuating the request with a sharp nip to Eames' lower lip.

Eames' laugh is startled out of him, low and dark and raspy right next to Arthur's ear. He slips his palm into Arthur's shorts, fingers scratching through the hair there before they wrap around Arthur's cock. The grip is lose, but Eames' hand is warm and sure, and he teases at Arthur's slit with his thumb, swiping the pad of it through the precome in tight circles. It's not what Arthur wants, not by half, but Eames is a heavy weight at Arthur's side, warm and huge, and even if Arthur could get a solid grip on all that sweat-slick skin, he wouldn't move Eames for anything.

The rhythm Eames tries to set is too slow for Arthur, for the blood thudding in his veins, his cock. His legs are restless, his hips even more so, and he thrusts into the circle of Eames' thick fingers over and over again.

It's strange how the combination of Eames' stubbornness, Arthur's enthusiasm, and the lack of room Arthur's shorts provide turns the hand job clumsy, but no less effective.

" _Eames_ ," Arthur groans, head turning away from Eames as he sucks a kiss into the thin skin under Arthur's ear. "Please, _please_."

"So eager for me," Eames rasps, rewarding Arthur with an unplanned twist of the wrist. The surprise of it makes Arthur gasp Eames' name.

"I'm gonna come, I'm gonna--" Arthur says, turning his face toward Eames. Arthur's eyes are closed and their noses bump together, but it doesn't matter. Eames is there, pinning Arthur's arm down, and his mouth is wet and hot, open against Arthur's.

Arthur comes with a shout, pillow clenched tight in his hands, back bowing off the bed. Dimly, he registers the sticky splatter of come on his stomach, Eames' sweaty forehead pressed to his temple, the fine trembling in his arms and legs. Arthur take a few moments to blink the sweat from his eyes, his own mixed with Eames', he's sure, and open his fists. His breathing calms in stages.

Next to him, Eames is barely more than a shadow, teeth glinting dim in the low light. The smile Arthur gives him in return feels too wide, too dopey, but it doesn't last long. He feels the hot, hard ridge of Eames' cock against his thigh, the nylon shorts damp with sweat and precome, and Arthur scowls up at Eames. "I wanted you to fuck me," he says, sounding more petulant than he intended.

Eames chuckles and leans in for a kiss. The gentle suction on Arthur's tongue sets all his nerves on fire and his cock gives a valiant twitch. "And I'm intend to give you exactly what you want," Eames promises, kissing his way down Arthur's chest and stomach, his spent cock. Eames' fingers curl into the waistband of Arthur's shorts and he pulls them down as he backs his way off the bed, kissing and nipping Arthur's thighs, his knee, the knob of his ankle. The scratch of his stubble over the sensitive skin makes Arthur gasp and writhe.

With hooded eyes, Arthur watches Eames head for the nightstand, shorts hanging low on his hips. The waistband clings to the swell of Eames' ass, teasing, and Arthur's gaze darts between that and the dimples in Eames' back. He's so busy imagining what he'll do with them, later -- whether he'll use his teeth or tongue first, or maybe fit the pads of his fingers in them -- Arthur doesn't notice Eames rooting around in the drawer until something lands on the bed near his hip. Arthur flails a shaky hand in the general direction until it lands on it: lube and a condom. He grins, wide.

Almost too late, Arthur catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and his focus shifts from what's in Eames' hand to Eames slipping out of his shorts. Even in the low light, he looks magnificent, all thick muscles and slim hips, tattooed skin lightly dusted with hair. His cock glistens with precome all along its length and the shiny, pink crown peeks out from the darker foreskin.

Arthur doesn't realize he's reaching out until his knuckles hit Eames' thigh, following the crease of it to grip tight to a sweaty hip. He pulls, weak, nails digging into the skin; grunts when Eames doesn't follow right away. Arthur's focus shifts, then, from Eames' cock to his face, his dark eyes and the intent in them. The weight of it pins Arthur to the bed and Arthur desperately fights the urge to fidget.

Careful, Eames climbs back onto the bed and slots himself in between Arthur's legs again, lining them up from toes to chest, skin to skin. Propped up on his forearms, he's got Arthur caged in, and Arthur grins, sighs. Arthur spares a moment to think that Eames' solid bulk between his thighs probably shouldn't be this much of a turn on, but it is and Arthur is loathe to care. Not with Eames kissing him softly, like it's what he was born to do.

Belatedly, Arthur realizes he still has one arm stretched above his head and he puts it to work, exploring Eames' chest and back with flat palms. Mapping the muscles he's watched a hundred times before makes his breath catch. Eames preens under the attention, shifting his weight from forearm to forearm, so Arthur can feel the shift and flex of them under his fingers. Arthur grins into Eames' kiss, murmurs, "Showoff," into Eames' mouth.

Eames' cock is an insistent pressure against Arthur's stomach, hard and slick and hot on his skin. He skates one hand down Eames' back and over his hip, is about to slip it between them when Eames catches it by the forearm. "You do that," he rumbles, "And you'll have to wait even longer." He nips along Arthur's lower lip to punctuate his point.

"Fucking _do it_ , then," Arthur hisses, brazen, grinding into Eames' hips.

Eames' groan is a hoarse, wrecked sound. He bites at Arthur's chin, hard, and shifts his weight to one elbow, holding the bottle of lube in the same hand. The other reaches up, awkward, and Arthur watches him pour a liberal amount over two of his fingers, ignoring the stray drops that land on his shoulder. The snap of the cap sounds loud in his ear, ominous where everything else hasn't. He gulps a breath, then another. Eames is watching him carefully, eyes following the bob of Arthur's Adam's apple.

"You are allowed to change your mind," he says. Arthur is surprised to see the chink in Eames' armor, the hint of anxiety in his tone.

He shakes his head, hands holding firm to Eames' broad shoulders. "Just-- go slow?"

Eames kisses him, soft and easy. "Absolutely."

He trails the backs of his fingers down Arthur's body, nails following the crease of his hip. Arthur is used to the feeling of probing wet fingers behind his balls, though his own are much slimmer than Eames', and less sure, less warm underneath the slick liquid. Less teasing, too; Arthur has never bothered to massage his perineum or circle gently around his rim. Too busy to get down to business, he guesses. Too anxious to see what all the fuss over penetration is about.

Arthur gets it now, though. The thick press of Eames' finger is both foreign and thrilling, and though his body resists on instinct, Arthur's energy is returning and he's eager for more. The wanton shift of his legs gives Eames more room to maneuver, and he does, sliding down Arthur's body to mouth at the sharp spur of his hip. At the same time, his finger is insistent, pushing against Arthur's resistance in small, easy thrusts. When Eames' mouth lands on a particularly sensitive spot at Arthur's groin, Arthur groans and melts into the bed, fight gone out of him. Eames' finger slides in, then, thick and warm. Arthur can feel the curve of Eames' pleased smile against his skin, and Arthur groans, his hips restless.

Eames uses lazy strokes to work Arthur open, distracts him from the stretch of a second finger by making his way back up Arthur's body and sucking hard on a nipple. The sharp edge of Eames' teeth has Arthur arching off the bed, one hand tangled in the sheets, the other in Eames' hair. Arthur doesn't realize he's shoved himself onto Eames' fingers until after, Eames watching for a reaction through the thick fan of his lashes. His grin glints at Arthur, but the cocky twist of his lips is too much and Arthur pulls him up by the short hairs at his nape, nips at Eames' lower lip before kissing him breathless.

Arthur circles his hips once, then again, in an effort to get Eames moving. Eames does, chuckling against the hinge of Arthur's jaw; murmurs, "So sodding eager," into Arthur's ear. His rhythm is slow but his fingers are thick, thicker when he crooks them.

Embarrassment flares in Arthur's cheeks and he bites his lip to keep in the groans and whimpers, clings desperately to Eames and the sheets to keep still. It only works for a little bit, until Eames' knuckles nudge his prostate, and Arthur can't stop himself from shouting out a curse.

"That's it," Eames croons, mouth hot on Arthur's neck. "I want to hear you. Every delicious little sound." Arthur's cock throbs at the thought of it, smears sticky precome over his belly.

"Eames," Arthur pleads, palms skidding over Eames' sweat-slick skin. "Do I have to beg?"

Eames' pleased hum resonates in Arthur's chest. "Maybe next time."

The idea of a next time makes heat prickle down Arthur's spine and settle heavy at the base. The thought of Eames wanting to do this _again_ almost enough to distract him from the loss of Eames' fingers and the empty feeling they leave behind.

Arthur must make a small sound of disappointment, because Eames curses, says, "You're not going to let me live through this, are you?" His voice sounds like he's been swallowing gravel. 

The condom wrapper crinkles in Eames' hand, flashes silver as he raises it to his lips and traps a corner with his teeth. Arthur laughs when it doesn't open the first time, or even the second. "If you'd quit fucking moving 'round," Eames mutters around the foil.

"If your fingers weren't so slippery," Arthur retorts.

Eames shoots him a dark look, clasps the wrapper firmly between his teeth and his fingers and growls, tearing it open in one swift motion. Hand trembling, Arthur picks up the condom from where it landed on his chest and carefully rolls it over Eames' cock, stroking light fingers over the hot, hard length. Eames' breath shudders out of him and his head drops, forehead landing heavy on Arthur's collarbone. Arthur gives the base a tight squeeze, thumbs at the seam of Eames' balls; the skin there is soft and lightly furred, warm and tight.

Eames groans at the contact. "If you want me to fuck you, you can't be doing that."

Arthur grins, unrepentant. Then, suddenly, Eames is rising up on his knees in between Arthur's thighs, his cock an obscene curve from Eames' groin to his stomach, his legs trembling under the strain. His hand curls around Arthur's knee, pulls it up and hooks it around his waist. His other hand palms Arthur's other thigh, pushes it up and out. The new position leaves all of Arthur exposed, and he's sure he'd blush if all of his blood wasn't already busy elsewhere. Despite that, Eames can't seem to get enough of the sight, doesn't move until Arthur digs an insistent heel into his side and rolls his hips.

"Take a picture," Arthur jokes. "It'll last longer."

Eames' lips part on a gasp, pupils expanding until there's hardly any blue left. Propping himself up on one flat palm planted next to Arthur's head, Eames leans forward, his other hand resting in the crease of Arthur's thigh, thumb tracing careless circles over the skin. "Do not make promises you can't keep," he warns, breath hot and damp on Arthur's face.

"Who says I can't?" Arthur replies with a small circling of his hips. The move grinds their cock together and Eames gives a full body shudder, lowers himself further in an impressive one-armed push-up to capture Arthur's mouth. He is forceful where Arthur is light, giddy.

At least until he feels the head of Eames' cock bump against his hole and then Arthur's pretty sure time stops. That's what it feels like, anyway; everything narrowed down to that one point of contact, barely any contact at all really. Arthur doesn't know if Eames is breathing, let alone saying anything. He doesn't bother to notice the play of shadows over Eames' stomach, or the wet tongue lapping at his nipple. All Arthur can focus on is the insistent press of Eames' cock, thicker and hotter and slicker than his fingers were, and yet Arthur's body seems to be rebelling.

Eames' head is bowed, so he doesn't notice the thin line of Arthur's mouth, his eyes squeezed shut. Arthur fights so hard to swallow down the whimpers, he doesn't realize he's trying to claw his way through the skin of Eames' shoulder until Eames is batting at the hand, muttering, "Fucking hell, Arthur, what--?" He looks up, then, eyes wide, says, "Right," and collapses on his arm, next to Arthur.

Eames pulls Arthur onto his body, moving him like Arthur's nothing more than a rag doll. "Up you get," Eames says, rearranging Arthur's legs so that they land neatly on either side of Eames' hips. Confused, Arthur pushes himself up, palms braced on Eames' chest, and Eames' gasps, moans as Arthur adjusts his weight.

The sight of Eames like this, all that smooth, inked skin and capable muscle spread out underneath Arthur, is intoxicating. Arthur tries not to let on how his head's spinning.

"Up, up," Eames says again, his warm, broad hands palming Arthur's bony hips. That's when Arthur gets it, why Eames has reversed positions, and he rises a little, one hand wrapped around Eames' thick wrist, the other reaching behind him to grasp Eames' cock. It throbs in Arthur's hand, hot and slick. It takes a few clumsy tries for Arthur to get it right and he groans once he does.

The pressure is still overwhelming, but this time Arthur's eyes stay open; he breathes deep and focuses on Eames underneath him, matches their breaths and grounds himself with the pounding of Eames' pulse under his fingertips. It's crazy, but the warm weight of Eames between his thighs, the press of his thumbs in the grooves of Arthur's hips, help Arthur to relax, and he laughs, a little giddy, when Eames' cock makes it past the first ring of muscle. The surprise of it has him rising up on his knees in shock, then just as quickly settling down again, taking Eames farther inside of him.

"Take your time," Eames gasps, perhaps struggling almost as much as Arthur is, but Arthur's had quite enough waiting. He rocks his hips back and forth, riding Eames' cock in short, careful movements. Each time he sinks down, Eames gusts out a breath, inches further into Arthur until, finally, they're pelvis to pelvis.

Arthur stills to give himself time to get used to the feeling of being so full, to the hot length of Eames' cock inside him. He makes small adjustments to the tilt of his hips, spreads his legs a little wider, experimenting with the angle as he stretches to accommodate Eames. Arthur doesn't notice the death grip Eames has on his hips until he swears he hears the bones creak. Looking at Eames face, he finds a manic grin, a violent tic in Eames' jaw.

"Problem?" asks Arthur, with a teasing tip of his head.

"I do have limits," Eames warns, breathing heavily. "Now, if you would kindly _move_."

Laughing, Arthur does, following the direction Eames' hands take him. It's a slow ride, up and down, Eames gritting his teeth the whole way, but every slide down feels different, opens Arthur up that much more. And he keeps leaning forward and back, hoping to help Eames' cock find the prostate again and make sparks flare behind his eyelids.

He gasps when one of Eames' hands wraps around his cock; he hadn't even noticed how it softened, but Eames' fingers are slick and warm, and now that Arthur's used to being stuffed full, he focuses on fucking into the circle of Eames' fingers instead of riding his cock.

It must not be enough for Eames, though, because he pulls Arthur forward with the hand still gripping his hip until Arthur falls onto his palms. Bracing his feet flat on the bed, Eames starts pumping into Arthur, meeting him on every downward thrust. The slap of skin on skin sounds obscene paired with Eames' grunts, but then Eames hits the angle just right, and Arthur can't care about the sound of anything; he only wants Eames to keep hitting _right there_ over and over again.

Arthur's arms start to tremble under the strain of keeping himself up. He tries to hold on for as long as he can, but the orgasm growing tight in his gut saps him of his concentration, and he all but collapses on top of Eames, skin sticky and hot. Eames huffs out a laugh, wraps one arm around Arthur's waist, and rolls them over. It's an awkward tangle of limbs, with Arthur not knowing where anything should go, and Eames slips out of him in the mess, but Arthur is used to him now, so it's a fairly smooth slide back in, and the weight of Eames pinning Arthur down with his hips is dirty and delicious and so fucking perfect.

Once Eames gets his knees under himself, his rhythm evens out, the muscles caging Arthur in shifting smoothly beneath the skin. Arthur misses Eames' hand on his cock, but the drag of Eames' stomach works well enough, and the sensation increases after Arthur wraps his legs around Eames' hips and arches into Eames' thrusts.

Eames' head drops to Arthur's shoulder, his lips wet and warm on Arthur's skin as he grumbles half-words that Arthur doesn't have the energy to comprehend. Instead, he wraps his arms around Eames' neck, laughs in his ear. Arthur feels amazing, possibly euphoric, and his orgasm comes from out of nowhere; a half-hearted punch to the gut that has him spilling over his belly in lazy spurts.

It doesn't last long, having just come moments (or maybe hours, he can't even tell anymore) ago, but it's enough to get Eames there with him, Eames rasping out a, "Bloody buggering fuck, _Arthur_ " into the crook of Arthur's shoulder. He keeps on thrusting, though, until he can't, arms giving out under the weight. Arthur's breath is forced out of him, but he hardly notices, too focused instead on everywhere they're touching and, less so, on Eames getting Arthur's come all over himself.

They stay like that for a long time, Arthur's weak legs falling to the bed as he combs his fingers through Eames' damp hair. He spares a thought to it being too fond a gesture, possibly too girly, but he can't care; all he wants is to feel Eames underneath his hands, and the fingertips he's dragging up and down Eames' back isn't enough. Arthur smiles, wide, and is grateful for Eames being boneless, if only so he can't tease Arthur about the dimples.

Eventually, Eames' groans, lips vibrating against Arthur's skin, and props himself up on his forearms. "Please tell me you're still breathing," he says, eyes half-closed, with a blissful, lazy on his face.

Arthur can't help it, he beams up at Eames, even though he snarks, "It was pretty touch and go there for a minute."

Eames presses a thumb to one deep dimple, dips down to kiss Arthur slow and easy. "I should fetch us a washcloth," he says, when they separate. Wincing, he adds, "And take care of the rubber."

Arthur hooks an arm around Eames' neck and a ankle around his thigh, leans up to capture his lips again, murmuring, "Stay. Stay," in between kisses. But Eames has only had one orgasm where Arthur's had two and he breaks Arthur's hold easily, lets his fingers trail through the mess on Arthur's stomach as his slips off the bed. Arthur consoles himself by watching the beauty that is Eames' ass walking away from him.

Eyes drooping shut on a yawn, Arthur hears Eames humming in the bathroom. His hand drops to his stomach, and he swirls his fingers through his come, too. The lazy circles he draws lulling him into a light doze. Vaguely, he hears the water turn on and off twice, loses track off time between when it shuts off the second time and Eames coming back to wipe gently at Arthur's groin.

"I can do it," Arthur slurs, frowning. He reaches for Eames, flailing about for his wrist, but all he finds is air, and then Eames' hand is a warm manacle around his wrist.

"S'alright, Arthur. Shhh," Eames says, moving on to the sticky come on Arthur's stomach.

Arthur tilts into the touch, head pillowed on his folded arm. Mumbles, "Feels nice," well on his way to falling asleep. Eames tweaks one of Arthur's nipples, then, but Arthur only swats at him some more, aiming for Eames' arm without opening his eyes.

Arthur barely registers Eames retreating back to the bathroom, but when Eames comes back, there's a cold glass being pressed to his palm and Eames is guiding him up from the bed. Arthur allows it. Stands by the bed with a scowl on his face as he drinks the water and watches Eames turn down the sheets. His stomach churns, though; Arthur suddenly nervous and unsure if this is his cue to leave or what he should do.

Eames makes the decision for him, thankfully; takes the empty glass from Arthur, places it on the nightstand and steers Arthur into the bed by his shoulders. The sheets smell like sex, now, but Eames' spicy clean scent is underneath all of that, light and calming, and Eames' body behind Arthur is solid and reassuring. So is the wide palm Eames splays over Arthur's stomach, thumb sweeping in short strokes over the skin just beneath the belly button.

Arthur, pulled close to Eames body, his ass snug in the cradle of Eames' hips, falls asleep with the sensation of damp, swollen lips brushing over the nape of his neck.


	6. Chapter 6

The first time Arthur wakes up, it's two in the morning and he's jackknifing up from the pillow, confused at his unfamiliar surroundings; not enough moonlight and too dark walls turning the space around him inky black. Once his eyes adjust, he looks to his right, at the pale expanse of Eames' arms and legs taking up as much room in the bed as possible. Impossibly, the sheet provides Eames some modesty, the edge of it low enough for Arthur to see thick, curly hair, but still covering Eames' cock. There are dark smudges on his forehead, wisps of hair that have fallen forward, making him look younger than he is. Arthur has to fight down the fondness that makes his chest feel too full.

Before he can give in to the urge to push it back, to card his fingers through Eames' hair over and over again, as if he doesn't already know the weight and texture of it, his stomach gives a low growl. It's then he remembers he hasn't eaten for the past twelve hours, not counting the glass of water Eames made him drink earlier.

Eames snuffles a little, tongue poking out to wet his lips, and he shifts toward Arthur, eyelids fluttering. Arthur thinks Eames is on the verge of waking and will probably be just as hungry, so he eases himself off the bed and tiptoes into the bathroom, grabbing his boxers from the floor on the way. 

The kitchen tile is cool under Arthur's bare feet, helping to make him more alert as he searches through the refrigerator for food. Neither he nor Eames have had time for grocery shopping in the last few days, so Arthur doesn't find much of anything substantial; some cold cuts, a block of the aged cheddar Eames likes for his burgers. There are few eggs Arthur could whip into an omelet for them to share, but he feels jittery, lit up all over. His concentration is shot, and any type of cooking would suffer for it.

He lays everything out on a large serving platter: cold cuts, cheese cubes, a sliced apple, and a pile of wilting celery sticks. It isn't much, but it's enough for two in the morning and someone too fucked out and giddy to be handling a knife. Arthur tops it all off by grabbing two huge bottles of water from Eames' emergency stash and filling two glasses with ice.

Eames' eyes are closed when Arthur returns, but his lips are starting to curl, his breathing gone shallow. Arthur, still trying to shake off the last stubborn dregs of uncertainty, places the food and water on the nightstand and kisses Eames awake, just to see if he can. It's soft, Arthur taking the time to focus on the taste and texture of those plush pink lips, dry with sleep and rough under his tongue. Eames swallows Arthur's yelp as he hooks an arm around Arthur's waist, reeling him in to deepen the kiss and slide a thigh between Arthur's legs.

Arthur allows himself to get lost in the wet heat of Eames' mouth, pressing in close for the touch of skin-on-skin. A thumb toys with the waistband of his boxer briefs, plucking at it like a guitar string until Arthur tilts his head just so, strokes the flat of his tongue over Eames'. Then, fingers slip underneath the elastic, nails dig into his ass, and Eames grinds into him, cock half-hard against Arthur's thigh. Arthur responds in kind, arousal pooling low and warm in his groin, but his stomach has other ideas; the scratchy growl has Eames pulling away, attempting to hide a chuckle. He looks over Arthur's shoulder and says, "I think we should hold that thought, yeah?" His hand, though, is still cupping Arthur's ass, and he gives it a healthy squeeze; a promise for later.

Though he knows he should eat, Arthur is too nervous, too keyed up. He tingles all over, from his head to his feet and everywhere in between. Now that he knows what it feels like to be pinned down by the weight of Eames' body, Arthur wants it back again. More than it wants food. Despite the heavy spike of blood to his cock, Arthur knows he should eat, and ends up taking in as much of Eames as he can with his eyes; the heavy droop of Eames' eyelids, the dusting of hair over his chest, his cock laying half-hard against his thigh, the lazy sprawl of his legs. It is obvious to Arthur that Eames is completely comfortable in a way Arthur isn't yet, and he swallows hard around a cube of cheese, chases it with a healthy gulp of water.

Arthur reaches out for a slice of apple, wanting something crisp to crunch on, and a hand wraps around his wrist, tugs once. It's easy to let himself be pulled, mind fuzzy with arousal. He lands on Eames' chest, palms flat over the nipples, the muscle smooth and firm. Without thinking, Arthur drops his head, mouth open, and sucks a kiss over the breastbone. Draws a line of wet kisses on Eames' skin until he reaches a nipple to draw circles around it with the tip of his tongue. Arthur lacks finesse, he knows, but Eames seems to be enjoying it well enough, if his hissing is any indication.

Eames doesn't let Arthur explore for long, though; wraps an arm around him and rolls them both over until Arthur is pinned to the bed by his wrists. He kisses Arthur, then, mouth hot and eager and tasting cool and crisp, like the apple slice Arthur had been about to eat. Arthur gets lost in it, the way Eames doesn't just kiss with his mouth, but his whole body; fingers tightening around his wrists, legs flexing around Arthur's, groins pressed together tight. Eames' slow grind coaxes the precome from Arthur's slit. It doesn't take long for his boxers to become sticky.

"Roll over," Eames says, his voice a rough gasp as he pulls away for air. Arthur is dazed and sluggish to move, so Eames does it for him; sweeps the half-empty platter of food to the floor and smacks Arthur on the flank. His hands grab for Arthur's hips, feeling too big for the small span of them, and pull up, twisting until Arthur is on his hands and knees, head hanging heavy over his folded arms. A dark thread of arousal coils low in his gut, turning his blood heavy and sluggish. His cock pulses out a bead of precome and he imagines he can feel it cling to his skin, that every inch of him is hyperaware of every tiny sensation.

He definitely doesn't imagine the scratch of nails on his ass, Eames' fingers curling into the waistband of his boxers, or the damp breath on his tailbone. Eames pulls off the underwear inch by inch, his mouth leaving behind a blazing line of kisses. The skin tingles not only from Eames warmth, but from the scratch of his beard, prickly on Arthur's tender skin.

With the boxers pooled at Arthur's bent knees, Eames curls his hands around Arthur's thighs, pulls them open and sets his teeth into the meaty part where ass meets thigh. He makes a low, growling sound deep in his throat as he sucks a bruise to the surface, then laves the ache with flat of his tongue. 

From there Eames follows the inside of Arthur's thigh with the tip of his tongue, traces the cleft of Arthur's ass and Arthur gasps. Eames pulls up, then, and he palms Arthur's ass, thumbs gently spreading him open. "You've no idea how long I've been wanting to do this," he says, barely more than a wrecked whisper.

Before Arthur can ask, "what," there's a soft wetness at his hole, slick and lush and-- "What the fu-- _Eames_!"

And those are the last proper words Arthur says until he wakes up much, _much_ later.

: : :

The second time Arthur wakes up, it's lighter. Almost too bright. Arthur squints into it, searching for the clock on the nightstand. He groans and tries to turn away from the light, but Eames is snugged tight behind him, one heavy arm looped over Arthur's waist, and something is poking at Arthur's ass.

He reaches back with one hand, smoothing the palm along Eames' side, until he gets to the hip; follows the groove of it and stops when his fingers find the thick nest of hair and the base of Eames' cock, more soft than not, but warm and a little sticky. Arthur works the foreskin a little bit to see what will happen and smiles, pleased, as it throbs.

With a bit of patience and careful maneuvering, Arthur manages to get face-to-groin with Eames' cock, all without waking him up.

He's never seen one uncut before, not in real life, and he definitely never thought of what sex would be like with an uncut guy until Eames. Most of the boys he regularly hung out with were Jewish. And it's not like the ones who weren't were lining up to let Arthur in their pants.

He rolls the foreskin back and forth a little, seeing how far it can go without hurting Eames. Each time he pulls back, the crown glistens a shiny pink. Precome pearls from the slit, tiny clear beads of it that Arthur leans in to lick up. Having never sucked cock before, Arthur has nothing to compare it to other than maybe how Eames' skin tastes. It's about the same, but this is saltier, more bitter. It certainly isn't bad enough to scare Arthur off just yet.

Arthur continues his exploration with his tongue, circling the ring of foreskin every time he draws it back, using the flat of his tongue more each time. Under his fingers, he can feel the dull throb of blood, the weight of Eames' cock getting heavier and heavier. The idea of that weight on his tongue prompts a fresh burst of saliva, the excess of it slowly dripping down Eames' length. When Arthur follows the trail with his tongue, Eames groans, long and low, and he shifts, legs falling open to give Arthur more room.

With Eames fully hard, now, Arthur can just barely wrap one hand around the base; the dark, hot curve of it looks obscene jutting out from circle of Arthur's paler fingers. It jumps in his grasp, the pulse of precome thick on the tip of his tongue.

Arthur eases the foreskin back, careful, and then up again; it's not an entirely new concept, not after the night of the party when he jerked Eames off, hard and fast, in his pants, but now Arthur gets to watch. Gets to see the slide of skin and how pink and shiny the crown is. He suckles at it, uses the tip of his tongue to trace the inside of the foreskin and collect the precome along the way.

Above him, Eames growls, inhales sharply through his nose and Arthur thinks Eames might finally be awake. It's confirmed a moment later as Eames murmurs something filthy and grabs for Arthur's hip to drag him closer. Arthur resists, though, and rasps, "don't" before swallowing Eames down, surer than he's been all morning.

Despite Arthur's inexperience, Eames doesn't last long. It's more difficult than Arthur expected, really, trying to coordinate hand and mouth and tongue while keeping the teeth out of the way. Then there's the little thing about breathing that he fumbles; ends up pulling off abruptly, eyes blurred, lungs desperate for air.

Eames is patient, though, and probably too sleepy to care. His hand falls to Arthur's head, a gentle pressure guiding him into the rhythm Eames needs. Arthur hums his thanks, which is what ends up doing Eames in, his come hot-bitter and thick down Arthur's throat.

Arthur crawls up the bed, then, on arms rubbery with pride. He can't dim his smile, knows his dimples are on full display, but he's a little giddy with the rush, savoring the taste of Eames on his tongue. Eames, too, looks pleased, crooked teeth bared in a wide grin. He is fuzzy around the edges, eyelids heavy and his face flushed and he's the most gorgeous thing Arthur has ever seen. His hand comes up to spear through Arthur's hair, pulling him in for a kiss. 

Arthur resists at first, says, "But I just--" his lips brushing against Eames. Eames' only answer is to bring their mouths together, licking into Arthur until Arthur relents, letting Eames banish the taste of himself from Arthur's mouth.

Too wrapped up in his euphoric pride, Arthur forgets about his own cock, the tip of it wet against his stomach, until Eames drags his knuckles along the length of it, wraps warm, clumsy fingers around it and gives it a few lazy tugs. Arthur laughs into Eames mouth, bright and happy, and slots his fingers between Eames'. His orgasm, when it comes, isn't like the explosive ones from during the night; it's soft and quiet, his forehead pressed to Eames' bicep, rolling with its flex and shift, pulled out of him, seemingly from the tips of his toes. There's a callus on Eames' thumb, probably from his work in the garden, that he uses to circle Arthur's slit, and that's all it takes. The sticky splash of him splattering over both their bellies.

Eames doesn't let go right away, works Arthur through it until he's murmuring a thick, "Stop, stop," around the lump in his throat. Eames does, eventually, wiping his sticky hand on Arthur's hip.

They stay like that for long minutes, Arthur's head ducked, Eames' breath ruffling through his hair. His hand rests heavy on Arthur's thigh, fingers scratching back and forth over the skin. It raises goosebumps all over, making Arthur shiver.

"We should probably shower," Arthur says after awhile, the drying come and sweat turning his skin stiff and gross. "Maybe get some breakfast."

Eames hums in agreement, but makes no move to get out of bed.

Arthur waits a beat longer, then says, "It helps to actually get out of bed, though."

Eames chuckles, "Yeah, alright."

He moves, slow, making a show of it for Arthur's benefit; rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms above his head and Arthur snorts, smacks Eames' hip with the flat of his palm. "Show off," Arthur mutters, feeling both giddy and a little jealous. Eames' is a physique Arthur will never have and, apparently, he isn't quite over being a beanpole the rest of his life.

Arthur allows himself to watch Eames walk away, anyway. Lets his gaze drink in the sight of Eames as unashamedly as Eames seems to feel, almost strutting into the bathroom. It's kind of funny, how cocky Eames is now, considering he was the one trying to be all moral and upstanding. Arthur laughs into the pillow, quiet.

: : :

They end up showering together, which lasts a lot longer than it needs to; Eames eager to revist all the marks he left on Arthur's neck the night before. He is especially delighted by the pink beard burn on Arthur's thighs, and sinks to his knees to press gentle kisses too it before sucking Arthur off.

After, they agree to go to Charlie's for a late brunch. It's run by an older gentleman named Mike, whose grandfather Charlie opened the place. It's diner turned restaurant-slash-coffee shop that Arthur has driven past every day on his way to work, but never actually been to, and though it has been around for seventy-something years, the various owners were smart enough to make improvements over time, so it's a lovely mixture of rustic and modern, cozy without being kitschy. A place that fits Eames perfectly.

Like everybody else they've run into on their trips into town, the waitress, Jessie, knows Eames and brings him a cup of tea without bothering to ask. Arthur scans the menu quickly and orders a masala chai latte, something he's sorely missed since leaving his favorite coffee shop behind for the summer. It's not the same as home, but it's close. Very close.

Eames orders eggs benedict, Arthur picks French toast. The both of them watch the world outside while they wait, sitting close enough that Eames can rest his arm on the back of Arthur's chair, his hand curled casually around Arthur's neck. His thumb brushes over the skin behind Arthur's ear every so often, making Arthur's scalp tingle. It's nice, easy to be here, even if Arthur's not exactly sure how this is supposed to go.

In the silence until their food arrives, Arthur's mind starts to wander, replaying the night over in his head, starting from the moment he stepped into Eames' bedroom. He picks everything part, look for look, touch for touch, and is left with one burning question that got lost in between one orgasm in the next.

Jessie arrives with their food just as Arthur is about to ask, so he waits. Lets Eames get a few bites in before he asks, "So. What changed your mind?" in what Arthur hopes is a causal tone.

Eames gives him a quick glance, focused more on cutting his breakfast into neat, even bites. "What's that?"

"Last night, what changed your mind about having sex with me?" 

Eames looks thoughtful as he chews, swallows deliberately and chases it with a sip of water. Though the silence is excruciating, Arthur tries to wait it out with as little fidgeting as possible.

Eames even makes a show of dabbing at a drop of Hollandaise clinging to the corner of his mouth first, smooths the napkin back over his leg before saying, "I suppose it's like Mal always says, 'the heart wants what the heart wants.'"

His answer is so glib, so _not_ what Arthur was bracing himself for, that Arthur's fork stops inches from his open mouth and his whole body freezes. Even the sounds of the restaurant behind him dim. The only thing he hears are Eames' words echoing in his brain, and suddenly his hand drops, landing on the table with a dull thunk.

"Can you ever be honest about yourself?" he asks. The small hysterical note in his voice makes Arthur wince, but at least the people two tables over aren't looking, so he tries to ignore it. "You have a non-answer for everything," he says, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

"I have been honest about a great many things, Arthur." Eames says, not appearing at all ashamed. "I am, quite literally, an open book."

Arthur scoffs. "Except for how you're one of the most reclusive best-selling authors. Except how you couldn't give me a straight answer about why you wouldn't sleep with me. Except how you don't talk about your family. Except how you don't talk about yourself at _all_." He ticks each point off with a finger, gritting the last one out through clenched teeth. "I may be young, Eames, but I'm not stupid." Satisfied with Eames' loss for words, he turns back to his own breakfast and takes a few bites, chewing with a little more force than necessary.

"Yes, please keep reminding me of how very young you are. That's always helpful."

Arthur snorts, rough. "I don't understand why you're so hung up on that. It's not like you're corrupting a minor, for god's sake."

"Corrupting-- oh bloody _hell_." Tossing his napkin to the table, breakfast only half eaten, Eames turns in his chair. "Arthur, you are several years younger than my youngest sister. You are almost young enough to be my _child_ \-- I was a rather promiscuous lad, don't kid yourself." He rushes the last bit before Arthur can try to argue the point.

"If my age is such a big problem for you, then what changed last night? I didn't age overnight, last I checked."

"Because…" He sighs, heavy, his gaze falling to the window and the world going on outside it. His arm is stretched along the back of Arthur's chair, not quite resting on Arthur's shoulders, but he can feel the heat of it, and the light touch of Eames' thumb flicking back and forth over a crease in his shirt. "Much as I hate to admit it, you are very much _not_ a child. You are poised and brilliant and gorgeous. I can't figure out how you turned out that way, spoiled though you must have been. Your mother is probably to thank for that." He winces on the word mother, an involuntary thing that makes Arthur want to laugh.

"But if I'm so poised and brilliant and gorgeous, how were you able to stay away from me for so long?"

"Well, you were acting a bit of a child there, weren't you?" He gives Arthur a knowing look. "Flirting with your Dylan, cozying up to him in front of the bonfire? Prancing around half naked?"

"I was not prancing," Arthur scowls.

"Prancing is in the eye of the beholder. In any case, they were child's play, Arthur. Games made up by teenagers ages ago. You are better than that. I _deserve_ better than that."

"So that's it? I stopped playing the games?"

"Does it really have to be more than that, Arthur?"

Arthur thinks about it while he takes a few bites of his breakfast. "I guess not." After a swallow of his milk, he asks, "So what happens now?"

Eames sighs again, thumbs at the soft spot behind Arthur's ear. "Let's just see where the road takes us, hmm?"

Arthur has more he'd like to say, but Eames turns back to his breakfast, shutting the door on further discussion.

: : :

After that, Arthur doesn't push things. He doesn't assume he'll be sleeping with Eames every night, or that they'll even have sex again. Not for lack of wanting it; more to give Eames space than anything else. And Arthur remembers all too well what happened the last time he assumed anything.

So, on the first night after, because it's there's a torrential downpour going on outside, Eames gets a fire going and slips one of his favorite classic movies into the blu-ray player. As Steve McQueen runs around being a bad ass, Arthur can see why Eames would enjoy it, but half his attention is focused on the hand in his hair, nails scratching back and forth over his scalp. 

They watch two more movies after that, one of which Arthur gets to choose, but Eames goes no further than tucking Arthur closer to his side. Not that Arthur minds much. Eames is warm and solid, and though his chest is nothing but muscle, it makes for a surprisingly comfortable pillow for when Arthur starts to nod off.

Once the credits from the last movie are rolling, Eames shakes him awake and Arthur yawns, bids Eames good night. He gets about two steps toward the stairs before Eames has a hand wrapped around his wrist and tugs. His mouth is soft and warm under Arthur's, taking away Arthur's chance to protest (not that he would) or question (not that he really needs to). Eames does let Arthur rearrange himself at least, so that he settles in a more comfortable straddle in Eames' lap. Everything turns filthier then, the two of them grinding and groping, fingers scrabbling for skin.

Arthur gets them to the bed before their pants come off, at least, holding Eames back with a hand on his chest. It's a struggle, with Eames' arms as long as Arthur's, and anyway, so what if they pause in the hallway to rut against each other, cocks thick and hard through their pants.

After a few nights of this, when they're in bed and still a little sticky and Eames is scratching his fingernails through the hair on Arthur's belly, he says, "Stop pretending like you don't know you're coming to bed with me. Feigned naïveté doesn't become you."

Arthur can only smile and smile.

He discovers, randomly, that Eames has a thing for his hair, carding his fingers through it over and over again, tugging and pulling and burying his nose in it when they're snug in bed. More often than not, Arthur comes home from work dirty and sweaty and sore with his hair slicked back against the scalp, and Eames always insists on messing it up, massaging Arthur's scalp until he's little more than a puddle on the floor.

Needless to say, Eames' thing works for Arthur.

Arthur returns the favor by having a thing for Eames' tattoos. It doesn't take him long to trace each one with tongue and teeth, but his absolute favorite is the one on Eames' hip, "till I die rf." Arthur doesn't know what it means, hopes maybe Eames will tell him eventually, but that doesn't prevent his fingers from following the lines of it over and over again, until he knows it with his eyes closed.

And if there's a constant mouth-shaped bruise there, changing positions every so often? Well, Eames doesn't say anything, so Arthur doesn't stop.

One thing Eames insists on, though, is for Arthur to spend more time with his friends, either at the cabin or not. It isn't something Arthur did a lot of before sleeping with Eames, but Eames insists that he is not about to turn Arthur's summer into one long snogging session, no matter how horny Arthur gets.

(Arthur agrees to it, mostly because Eames is three fingers deep in his ass and mercilessly teasing Arthur with feather-light strokes against his prostate. Arthur vows to return the favor eventually.)

Other than that, things don't change much; Eames doesn't run around naked or insist Arthur sit in his lap at every opportunity. He does get a little handsier, though. Eyes more heated, especially when they get into their friendly disagreements. Disagreements that are worked out with the Xbox far less than they used to be.

By the end of July, Arthur's sort of fallen into a groove; spending the days working with his friends, and sometimes the nights, too. Just as often coming home to Eames and being greeted with a soft, knowing kiss and fingers in his hair. Better still is waking up in Eames' bed, his body a long, broad line of heat wrapped around Arthur. It's something he gets used to fairly quickly, along with the permanent smile on his face and the warmth in his chest.

So, it comes as a bit of a shock, though not entirely unexpected, when Eames reminds Arthur that his sister is due in, and that Arthur will have to sleep on the couch.

He knew about the visit of course. It had been one of the first things Eames explained to him. At the time, though, it didn't seem like a big thing. Sleeping on the couch for two weeks? He's slept in worse places. But back then, he hadn't been sleeping with Eames, hadn't even imagined it a possibility. Now that it's happened? The idea stings.

"Surely I don't need to remind you how you came to be here?" Eames says the one time Arthur mentions the new accommodations.

It takes a minute to dawn on Arthur: His aunt. Eames' sister.

"I don't fancy your mother being too pleased if she were to find out I've defiled her darling lad." He doesn't mean it to be unkind, but it still stings a little. The thought that Eames doesn't want anybody knowing about them.

Arthur can't say no, of course. Eames is right, especially about Arthur's mother knowing, and there's no use fighting over it, not when they only have a few nights left together. And he reminds himself, as he moves his stuff out of the bathroom and into Eames', that it's only temporary. He can last two weeks; he'd lasted longer than that while Eames insisted on being stubborn.

: : :

Eames sister, as it turns out, is like the female version of Eames in personality if not physically. She heads straight for Arthur when she lets herself into the cabin, smiling with her arms open wide. Her head fits right underneath his chin and he breathes in the peppermint smell of her hair.

"Lovely to see you as well, Samantha," Eames says from behind Arthur, but he can hear the grin in Eames' voice and she gives Arthur one last, tight squeeze before barreling into Eames, too.

She criticizes everything about Eames, from the clothes he's wearing to the length of his hair to the fact that hasn't called their mother in ages. She even goes so far as to say he doesn't look like he's been eating much. But there's a warmth there, underneath, that Arthur recognizes from his own sisters' teasing. The most important thing Arthur picks up out of all of her complaining, though, is how Samantha ("Call me Sam.") calls him "Danny."

" _Danny_?" Arthur asks, under his breath as he follows Eames up the stairs with approximately two hundred pounds of luggage in his hands.

"She's the only one allowed to call me that," Eames hoarse-whispers back, cutting Arthur a sharp glare from over his shoulder.

"Right, right." Arthur tries to appear properly admonished, but he can't stop his lips from twitching.

Later, after dinner, Sam raids Eames' alcohol cabinet and mixes the most god awful concoctions known to man and insists that Arthur and Eames drink them. In between one drink and the next, Sam and Eames both fight to tell the most embarrassing childhood stories of each other, making Arthur laugh so hard his stomach hurts.

And, though while they'd all prepared dinner together with Eames doing a fairly decent job of keeping his hands to himself, the alcohol loosens his inhibitions enough for him to indulge in carding his fingers through Arthur's hair, pinching his ear lobe, or thumbing at an errant drop of tequila on his lips.

Each touch makes Arthur's stomach flip, and his gaze darts over to Sam, an obvious tell, Arthur is sure. She seems blissfully oblivious, but that doesn't mean Arthur lets his guard down, either. Luckily, the amount of alcohol he drinks keeps his arousal to a minimum and makes it easier for him to pass out on a lonely couch, between cold sheets.

: : :

Halfway through Sam's stay, Arthur can't resist congratulating himself on a job well done. Between Arthur working an insane amount of hours and Sam keeping Eames busy either with gossiping about family or celebrities or townies, or taking her shopping, he and Eames both manage to make it through the entire week without any slip-ups.

He doesn't even glimpse down the hall when he pads into the kitchen, bare feet slapping quietly on the tile. With his mouth open on a wide yawn, Arthur walks directly for the sink and a glass of water, and barely has time to react to the broad, shadowed back in his way. He freezes for a moment as he tries to decide whether to turn back or get his water. Eames' heavy sigh, the slight lift and drop of his shoulders makes up Arthur's mind for him.

Carefully, he threads his arms through Eames', skimming his palms over Eames' waist and stomach, over his ribs, to settle on his chest. His nape is warm where Arthur's forehead is pressed to it, the skin dry and smooth. Arthur rides through the rise and fall of Eames' chest, focuses on trying to match their breathing patterns.

"This shouldn't be so hard, you know," says Eames, quiet and low. His hand comes up to take one of Arthur's, his thumb circling Arthur's palm.

"It isn't, actually," Arthur replies with a lewd roll of his hips. His cock is soft, but Arthur knows it would only take a few minutes of this reconnecting to change that.

Eames chuckles, says, "Don't be such a smart arse," and reaches behind him to slip two fingers into waistband of Arthur's boxers and pull him forward. In the shadows, his face looks older, more severe. Arthur brushes a stray lock of hair from Eames' face. "You're eighteen, your blue balls should've fallen off by now."

"Why do you think I've been working so much? That's how I get by. Lose myself in the work." His fingers shift from Eames' forehead to his temple, sift through the short hair, there. Eames leans into the touch with a minute tip of his head, just enough for Arthur to feel the pressure, and his mouth parts, lips wet and pale pink.

It's only a short distance for Eames to lean and kiss Arthur, then, slotting their bodies together with Arthur pinned to the counter, Eames' wide hands spanning Arthur's back. The rasp of skin on skin raises goose bumps all over and Arthur shivers, arms wrapped tight around Eames' waist, pulling him close, closer.

It's easy for Arthur to forget everything around him except for Eames; the heat of his mouth and slickness of his tongue, the solid thigh between Arthur's legs and the broad chest pressed to his own. Eames _is_ the only thing around Arthur. The only thing that matters.

Until he abruptly isn't, pulling back with a sharp snap of his head. Dazed, Arthur tries to follow, but Eames has a hand flat on Arthur's chest, and then he's gone, standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open. Seconds later, Arthur hears a high-pitched yawn from behind him and he turns his head to see Sam walk in, her hair a wild mess. She has a hand to her mouth and her eyes closed, and she bumps her hip on the kitchen counter as she comes around. Arthur reaches out a hand to guide her and ends up startling her in the process.

"Having a party without me, are we?" she says, voice thick with sleep but still cheery. Arthur isn't sure how she does it. "Don't stop on my account."

"I was just off to bed, actually," says Eames. He closes the refrigerator and leans in to kiss her on the cheek. There is no knowing glance for Arthur before he turns and disappears down the hallway.

Sam turns to him then, eyes far more alert than they were a second ago. Arthur has to fight the urge to cover his heated cheeks. The embarrassment, at least, is taking care of the hard-on in his pants. "I, uh… Glass of water."

"Me as well, please," says Sam, running the cold water while Arthur gets the glasses.

They drink in awkward silence, standing side-by-side behind the sink. Every so often, her elbow nails him in the side, and Arthur tries to inch away slowly every time.

Sam finishes first and sets her glass in the sink. "Well, that was lovely. Good night, Arthur."

"G'night, Sam." He watches her leave as he finishes his glass.

: : :

Eames and Sam leave for New York City early the next morning, giving Arthur some much needed breathing room. It's strange to have the house to himself after a week of the two of them filling it with their arguing or laughter or both, but the time away will help cool his libido again, get him focused back on work, and the fact that the first day college -- something he'd sort of forgotten in the euphoria of having sex with Eames -- is not all that far away.

They return three days later, car overflowing with shopping bags of every shape and size, and Arthur only has to remind himself twice that Sam will be gone soon.

But just in case, he doesn't go into the kitchen for any more late night glasses of water.

It's not until the day before Sam is set to leave that Arthur runs into her -- literally -- alone and looking to talk. It's not that Arthur's been avoiding her. More like he's been keeping himself busy with things she wouldn't be interested in. And seeing his friends from the nursery more. 

This time, though, Arthur can't avoid her. He spots her on the deck after his ritual dive in the lake, curled up in one of the chairs with a mug sitting on the arm. Even sleep-rumpled with no make-up on, she is beautiful. Soft and comfortable, though her eyes are sharp.

"Do you have a spare moment, Arthur?" she asks, patting the arm of the chair next to her.

Arthur fidgets, checks his watch. He can't be entirely sure this conversation will be about the other night, but from the way she's watched him and he and Eames together since she returned from the city leaves little room for doubt. "Yeah, sure."

She smiles wide and warm, adjusts herself in her chair so she's facing Arthur. "We haven't had much time to get to know each other, you and I."

"Not exactly what you're here for, though, is it?"

"No. I suppose not. Doesn't seem right, though. I know your aunt so well, and she talks about her family so much. I feel like I should know you."

Arthur shrugs a shoulder. "What would you like to know? I'm pretty much an open book."

She takes a minute to think and finally decides on, "Anything you wish to tell me."

"That's a little vague," Arthur says, skeptical.

"Okay then," she leans closer, so that their knees bump together, "tell me something that Eames doesn't know. " This close, Arthur realizes her eyes are blue, like Eames', but brighter, with the same hint of mischief. 

Arthur settles back in the chair to think about it, fingers drumming on his knee. He and Eames don't talk much, not about themselves anyway, which is something Arthur hadn't noticed until now. He's about to frown at the thought, but then he smiles wide and his chest puffs with pride.. "I was four when I recited the alphabet backwards for the first time." 

"So you were always a smart child."

"Yes," Arthur nods. "I like hard work. I like knowing things. I like precision. My sisters say I'm too anal, but…" He shrugs. "I can't help it. It's probably why I don't do so well with cooking."

"How so?"

"No imagination."

"Ah, yes. I can see why you would like to be an editor, then."

"I think I could be really good at it."

"I have no doubt." Thankfully, it doesn't sound like condescension, tempered with her warm smile. "And what about Eames? He's been good, yeah? Teaching you the proper way to handle a stubborn author?"

Arthur's mind betrays him as it flashes back to the morning before Sam arrived; Eames soap-slick and groaning in the shower, Arthur jerking him off with quick, wet strokes, eyes darting between Eames' face and his cock. He ducks his head to hide the heat in his cheeks. "Yeah," he says, voice raspy. "Yeah, he has."

"Arthur?" The hand she covers with his is soft, gentle. The sincerity in her voice makes his stomach twist and he shoots up from the chair to keep from throwing up.

He paces back and forth in front of her, ten feet in either direction, hands gesticulating wildly. Once he starts talking, he can't stop. "Look. Okay. He didn't do anything, okay? I wanted it. _I_ did. I know it's weird. Maybe. I don't know. I've always had a thing for older guys, and yeah, maybe it's daddy issues, and maybe it isn't. I don't know. I'm. Y'know, psychology isn't my strong suit. But I pursued him. Really. And I don't-- I don't regret it. Not a bit. I'm sorry if you don't get it, really I am, because I know he loves you and values your opinion. But. I don't. I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry it happened."

"Arthur, darling, please sit?"

Arthur sits, but his knee has other ideas, bouncing up and down to try and get rid of the nervous energy. His chest is still heaving, too, desperate for oxygen after his diatribe.

"You're going off to school soon, yeah?"

Arthur winces; it's something that he's been trying to ignore since he first slept with Eames, that he's been on the downward slide of his stay here since before that night. Arthur isn't usually one to bury his head in the sand, but he also isn't one to sleep with thirty-two year old men. Apparently, he's giving himself a few allowances this summer.

"And what will happen with the two of you when you leave?"

"We haven't really talked about it. It's not. I think we both understand this isn't necessarily a forever thing. We're allowed to have some fun, right?" The tone of question ticks up at the end, betraying the uncertainty he's been feeling ever since that night in the kitchen.

"Of course you are. I only worry that one of you may have higher expectations than the other. That one of you will end up hurt at the end."

Arthur chuckles. "Is this the 'if you hurt my big brother I'll break your legs' speech?"

For the first time, she looks sad. The honesty of it makes his heart lurch. "In a way, yes. I know Danny is incredibly charismatic and generous with his feelings, but there's more to him than that."

"I am aware of that," Arthur says, slightly offended.

"I'm sure you are." She rubs a thumb over his knee, lips pressed together in a thin line, as if she wants to say more, but she looks up at him instead, eyes shining. "I'm just as worried about you, too, though. Have you ever been in a relationship before?"

"This isn't a relationship. It's…" Arthur isn't sure what to call it. They aren't boyfriends, Arthur is sure. But it's more than friends with benefits, too.

"Just because you haven't given it an official title doesn't mean it isn't a relationship. And all relationships have the potential to end badly. For someone to be hurt in the end. Have you thought about what will happen to him while you're gone? Will he come see you? You him? Will you agree to see other people? Introduce him to your mother?"

Arthur pales at the last.

"I thought as much." She takes he hand, then. The skin soft and dry and warm, and he clings to it like a lifeline. "Listen, Arthur, if you make my brother happy, then I am happy. You are a wonderful, brilliant young man. My brother could pick far worse. _Has_ picked far worse, if you ask me. But it isn't as simple as you wanting to be together making it so. It takes work. And with a relationship like yours, people will talk. They will make it difficult for you, for him. All I want is for you to think about that first. You deserve to sow some of your wild oats, too."

Confused, Arthur's gaze drops to their hands. "But I've never been that guy. The one that sleeps around."

Her fingers squeeze his, gentle. "Just because you haven't been doesn't mean you won't want to be."

Arthur is dubious, but he doesn't argue the point.

"I don't mean to burst your bubble. Really, I don't. I only want you two to walk into this with both eyes open. That's the only way this will work."

"I know," he answers, glum. Adds, "I have given it some thought, you know. Not a lot, but..." he lets the sentence trail off because 'I just really like sex with Eames' isn't a good enough excuse to suspend reality.

She studies him for a moment, fingers drumming on the arm of her chair. "How much has Eames told you about himself?"

"Uh. Well, you, obviously. And Mal and Dom. I don't..." The change in subjects is confusing, and Arthur feels stupid flailing around in his memories, trying to pick up the tidbits of his past Eames has given him. "Not much, I guess."

"So you don't know how he ended up in the middle of bumfuck Virginia?"

"No," Arthur answers, meek.

She tilts her head to the side and gives Arthur a shrewed glance. "Have you never been curious about it?"

Arthur startles. "Of course I have! He's not exactly the most forthcoming person when it comes to talking about himself."

"No, I suppose he isn't."

Arthur hesitates, reaches out to touch her arm, but stops his arm in mid-air. "Is there something I should know?"

Sam shakes her head. "I can't answer that, love. It's Eames story to tell, _if_ he chooses to tell it." The pained look on her face makes Arthur's stomach fall to his feet. "But that's the chance you take, love, when getting involved with someone with a history. You have take the good with the bad."

As Arthur searches for something to say, she cards her fingers through his hair. He tips into the warm weight of her hand, seeking the comfort she's clearly willing to give.

"I do remember what's it like to be eighteen, you know." Her smile is fond and her eyes bright. "It's easy to be selfish, especially if your partner is so eager to give. All I'm asking, Arthur, is that you be careful with his poor, decrepit heart. And with yours, too."

Arthur nods, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. "I'll try."

"Thank you, Arthur. You really are brilliant, you know." She rises, then, tea cup in one hand, the other spearing through Arthur's damp hair to palm his head. He tips it back automatically, eyes wide as she leans down and gives him the stereotypical double cheek kiss. Her lips are cool and sticky and she smells like honeysuckle. "Good luck. With school and…everything else. It was lovely to meet you."

"You, too, Sam. Thanks." She pulls away, reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The smile on his face feels a little goofy, especially when she thumbs at one of his dimples.

"Must go pack," she says at last, motioning for the door. Arthur nods, gaze sliding to the lake as she leaves.


	7. Chapter 7

Life after Sam doesn't quite return to what it was before. Though Arthur does move back into Eames' room for his remaining two weeks, there is something quieter about Eames, and Arthur is just enough of a coward not to ask what's wrong. There are glimpses of Eames from before, though; a wicked glint in his eye, his throaty laugh, the way he can't seem to stop sucking bruises into Arthur's hips. Arthur wants to chalk the rest of it up to both of them having to face the fact that their summer is almost over, that _they_ are almost over.

(Arthur keeps trying to tell himself that's wishful thinking. Mostly, he believes it.)

It's harder, too, because fall sales are ramping up at the nursery, which puts them in an all hands on deck situation. Arthur is exhausted by the time he gets home, too weary to help with dinner, or sometimes to even play Xbox. He's grateful that Eames doesn't mind and, more often than not, Arthur decides to join Eames in a late night dip in the lake.

Because of all the work, the last two weeks fly by and, as he packs the last of his stuff into his car, it feels to Arthur as though he's just arrived for the first time, both eager to get away from his mom, but also dreading the weird old man that's supposed to be his mentor.

Arthur chuckles to himself, at how he got things so very, very wrong, and Eames asks, "What's so funny?"

He turns to Eames, then, squinting into the sun to see him leaning against one of the columns on the porch, legs crossed at the ankles. He's wearing a gray sleeveless undershirt and his rattiest pair of jeans; his feet are bare, his arms crossed over his chest. "I'm glad you could dress up for this auspicious occasion, Eames."

Eames shrugs easily, looking to all the world almost entirely carefree. Arthur can tell, though. He sees the slight slump of Eames shoulders, the tightness around his eyes and lips. "We can't all be a sartorial genius like you, yeah?" He unfolds himself and approaches Arthur, reaching out to tug on the hem of his sweater.

On the porch, behind where he was just standing, is a carrier bag. Arthur points at it and says, "Did you get me something to remember you by? And here I thought I that was what the mind-blowing sex was for." The barb earns him a small grin, crooked teeth catching on the lower lip before it can grow too wide.

"Just go look, smart arse."

He does, opening the bag enough to see copies of Eames books, the exact same copies Arthur spent all of June and part of July reading. "I don't understand," he says, looking back at Eames, confused.

"What did I say about feigned naïveté, darling? It really doesn't suit." He closes the distance between them, uses a thumb to smooth the wrinkles from Arthur's forehead. "You think I didn't notice them missing from my shelf?" A small sound curls low in the back of his throat, making Arthur's cheeks burn. Before he can stutter out a reply, Eames wraps a hand around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. "It means the world to me that you tried," he rasps when they pull apart for air.

Arthur barely manages to scrape out a hoarse, "Thank you," around the lump in his throat.

"Right, well." Eames clears his throat and turns to the car, but his hand is still around Arthur's neck, warm and wide, thumb resting over the pulse. Arthur sways into the weight of it. "You have everything, then? Your clothes? Your laptop? That gorgeous suit of yours?" He growls the last one, the memory of it flashing hot in his eyes.

"Eames." Arthur grasps his wrist, tugs so Eames will look at him. "Thank you. For everything." He can only hope Eames understand what he is trying to say; for the first time in a very long time, Arthur is at a loss for words.

"Arthur?" Eames says, one hand on Arthur's shoulder, thumb rubbing circles around the hollow of Arthur's throat, his face serious. "May I give you one last piece of advice?"

"Yes?"

"Don't ever thank people for sex. Makes you appear weak, and you are never _ever_ weak."

"Oh my god," Arthur cries, "You are such an asshole." He shoves at Eames' shoulder, letting his hand linger a little longer than necessary so he can memorize the heat of that skin. "I was _not_ thanking you for sex."

Eames laughs, finally. For real this time. It makes Arthur's stomach clench and his throat tighten.

"So, I'd better get going," Arthur says, hooking a thumb at his car. Eames sobers immediately, but there is still a small smile there; Arthur brushes his fingers over the eye crinkles, lets the tips of them drag over the tattoo on Eames' bicep as they drop.

"Right, then. Do drive safe. Tell your mother hello. Best wishes for uni." He pulls Arthur into another kiss, with an arm around Arthur's waist, fitting their hips together. Eames growls into it, goading Arthur to give it his best, and he does; wrapping his arms around Eames' broad shoulders, palming the sun-warm skin as he matches Eames with teeth and tongue. He ends it by closing his teeth on Eames' lush bottom lip and tugging, then sucking.

"I'm gonna miss that mouth," Arthur says, voice ragged, breathless.

Eames palms Arthur's ass through his pants. "I'm gonna miss that arse."

"Asshole," Arthur repeats, affectionate.

: : :

Arthur's return to Annapolis is bittersweet.

All of his friends are back in town for one last hurrah, but things feel unfinished between him and Eames. They never had The Talk; about what it was between them, where it might be headed, if they would ever see each other again. On the one hand, Arthur wanted to follow Eames' lead. His, "follow the road wherever it takes us" philosophy. On the other hand, Arthur's precise nature died a little more each day the issue was left unaddressed.

Getting through the days, at least, is fairly easy; getting his things together for the move to New York City, two of his sisters, Sarah and Annie, showing up to hear about his summer and to see him off. He has hardly any time at all to think about Eames. And when he does, his mother always seems to catch him and ask him what was wrong.

The nights are harder though, his full bed feeling too small and lonely now that he knows the difference.

It's a relief, then, to get to New York City, mom and sisters in tow, the Tuesday before Labor Day. Arthur and his sisters become too busy with showing their mother around the city she hasn't seen in twenty years. To Arthur, it feels a little like the last time they'll be together as a family, a feeling exacerbated by the arrival of his other two sisters, Vanessa and Jennifer, and it's almost like old times, the four girls dragging Arthur around here and there, their mother following behind to make sure he isn't harmed in any way.

On the Saturday before classes, they all help Arthur set up his dorm room, which takes all of about five minutes, thanks to the size of it. His roommate, Jeff, is a little overwhelmed by the flock of women, but they leave soon enough, agreeing (under duress) to wait for Arthur outside the building so he can meet his floormates in peace.

As usual, all five of the women in his life are teary-eyed by the time he gets downstairs, his mom the worst of all.

"Would you quit acting like you're never going to see me again?!?" he says, pulling each sister into a tight hug. They're all shorter than him, the tallest of them hitting him about chest height, and he has a sudden, brief flash of Sam, her head tucked under his chin. The memory of it -- of _Eames_ \-- makes his chest ache. "I will be _fine_. Now please, go? Do you really want me to start off my college career with this kind of reputation?"

"Actually--" Vanessa starts to say, eyes dancing, but Arthur cuts her off with a hand over her mouth.

"Just go. I will call you." He watches them to make sure they get into a taxi before he turns to face the dorm and heaves a sigh.

Back in his room, Jeff is patting himself down. He looks up as Arthur walks in. "Hey dude, a bunch of us are gonna go grab some food. Wanna come?"

Arthur does, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder.

They're cutting through Washington Square, exchanging information about their respective majors, when Arthur's neck begins to prickle. His back straightens automatically and he scans the benches, the columns, not quite sure of what he's looking for until he finds it.

A man sitting about fifteen feet away, arms stretched long over the back of the bench, legs wide in a lazy sprawl. He's wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses and his hair stirs in the breeze.

"Hey, guys?" Arthur says, not taking his eyes from Eames. "I'll meet up with you later, okay?" None of them really notice, and Arthur doesn't actually mind.

He approaches Eames slow, stopping about a foot away, his heart feeling too heavy in his chest. Arthur opens his mouth to say hi, but what comes out instead is an almost irritated, "What're you doing here?"

Eames shrugs. "Thought I'd go out for a stroll."

"That's quite a walk for you. Virginia to New York City." Arthur's scowl deepens.

"Thank you for the compliment Arthur, but I'm not that fit. No, I just happen to have a hotel I favor right down the block there--" he points "--and I wanted to enjoy this lovely afternoon. My feet carried me here of their own accord. Funny how that works, isn't it?"

Arthur is torn between wanting to drop into Eames' lap and press his nose to the hollow of his throat, the skin of it shining with sweat, exposed by the open vee of Eames' shirt. The other half of him wants to kick Eames for being so stoic, so seemingly unaffected by Arthur's presence. It's a little bit childish, he knows. He'll blame it on having had to deal with his mother and sisters all week.

Before Arthur can say anything, though, Eames pulls off his sunglasses and his expression softens and Arthur's resolve crumbles like so much ash. "Care to join me for dinner?" Eames asks as he stands.

: : :

Dinner, as it turns out, extends to a late night tour of the city, to sex in the hotel afterwards, to a decadent breakfast in bed the morning after. In fact, Eames only allows Arthur out of his sight long enough for Arthur to pick up his orientation packet and student ID for the rest of the weekend.

Eames doesn't explain what he's doing in New York; if he's there on business or if he's only there to see Arthur, but there are no secretive phone calls, no phone calls of any kind, so Arthur lets Eames keep his reasons to himself.

Though he enjoys spending every waking and sleeping moment with Eames, especially seeing the city through Eames' eyes, Arthur vows that he will scale the side of the building if necessary, but he has to be back on campus by Tuesday, if only so his roommate won't report him missing. Arthur should be suspicious of Eames' easy agreement.

They eat dinner at the hotel on their last night, most of the time spent discussing the classes Arthur was accepted into. It's not the first time they've had a discussion like this, but Arthur feels weird anyway, knowing this is the last time he'll see Eames for awhile. Possibly ever. Again, he has this knot of dread growing in the pit of his belly, making it difficult to eat his filet. But Eames looks happy and Arthur doesn't want to ruin what little time they have left.

He's grateful for that later, when Eames is sucking him off, fast and wet. Arthur comes with a yelp and falls back onto the bed in a wide sprawl.

"I can't believe you make the old man do all the work," Eames teases between nipping kisses into the skin over Arthur's hips and ribs.

Arthur tries to say something biting, manages to get out, "I was gonna…" and a vague gesture with his hand before Eames is claiming his mouth, moving down to suck a bruise into his neck. Slick fingers brush over his hole, then, and his legs fall open to better accommodate Eames' hips.

"I'll just fuck you until you get hard again, all right?" he says, stroking his fingers deep. 

Arthur gathers the strength to press a palm to Eames' forearm. "Then do it," he hisses, and Eames eyes snap to Arthur's face, dark and hot and intent.

True to his word, Eames fucks into him; slow at first, with one thick arm around Arthur's waist, making small adjustments with each thrust to get the best angle. Arthur shouts at the first burst of sparks behind his eyes, tries to get a hand on himself to help things along, but Eames is insistent.

Eames rasping, "Only my cock, love," makes Arthur's stomach swoop, but the words seem to do the trick, his cock filling slow and steady. Eames grins at his handiwork; tips forward until Arthur is on his back and his knees are hooked over Eames' shoulders. His stomach trembles from the strain, but it feels amazing, Eames so close their open mouths bump together. Eames' wide hands cradle Arthur's head, thumbs tucked behind Arthur's ears.

Arthur's hands are on Eames' head, too, fingers twisting in the hair at Eames' nape every time he circles his hips. They swallow each other's breathless words, Arthur desperate for orgasm again, even though Eames seems intent to keep fucking into him all night long. He wants to let go of Eames, to use his hand to ease the ache in his cock, knowing that Eames will follow right after, but he can't deny Eames what he wants, either.

And it's good, really, with Eames' thighs pressed to the backs of Arthur's. He can feel the muscles flex as Eames thrusts, harder and hard until, finally, he freezes. Groans out, "Oh fucking bloody hell, _Arthur_."

Arthur can feel the warmth of the come through the condom and clenches down hard, whispers, "yeah yeah yeah, c'mon" into Eames' slack mouth. He lets go then, too, uses his precome to work his cock. Eames groans deep when Arthur comes, his body gripping Eames even tighter through the orgasm.

Arthur makes a small sad sound as Eames pulls out, missing the feeling of being filled, of Eames' heat around him. Eames seems to understand; makes a show of tying off the condom and throwing it away. Crawls into the bed and says, "Don't worry love, we've got all night."

Snuggling closer to Eames' chest, Arthur smiles.

: : :

Arthur blinks against the white morning light, eyes feeling puffy from lack of sleep. He turns, limbs stiff, within the loose circle of Eames arms, discovering gross, dry patches of skin on them both as he rolls. The sheets, too, are a mess of lube and come and sweat, and Arthur wrinkles his nose, sighing. It's one thing to be too fucked out to realize what kind of a mess he's sleeping in; it's another matter entirely to know and decide to remain there, anyway.

Eames barely stirs when Arthur carefully lifts his hand and wriggles out from underneath it, finding the floor to be almost as big a mess as the bed. Their clothes are strewn about everywhere. It's kind of embarrassing.

His shower is quick, perfunctory. He has a lot he wants to do today, and as much as he would love to laze in bed all day -- well, maybe not _that_ bed, but _a_ bed -- he can't. Somehow, he has to figure out how to bring up the subject of them with Eames and say good-bye to him, too. For real this time. It's not the ideal situation, but when one makes their bed, they must lie in it.

Arthur thinks again of the bed and winces.

Eames is less picky about where he sleeps, so long as he is allowed to stay horizontal. Arthur pinches him on the side and the ass until Eames relents, rolling out of bed, grumbling all the way. Once he's finally knuckled the sleep from his eyes, he gives Arthur, wrapped only in a towel, his arms full of their clothes, an appreciative once-over.

"Oh no," Arthur says, dropping the clothes as Eames stalks toward him. "You are not getting that disgusting mess--" he waves a hand, indicating the entirety of Eames' body "--anywhere near me."

Even with Arthur's palm splayed wide on his chest, Eames doesn't stop until Arthur is backed into a wall. His hand curls behind Arthur's neck, warm and dry, and pulls Arthur close, so that their mouths are only inches apart. "You say the sweetest things," Eames teases before claiming Arthur's mouth in a desperate, bruising kiss. He tastes stale and gross, but it's the last time Arthur might get to do this, so he doesn't end it until he can't go without air anymore.

"Get in the shower," Arthur orders, voice wrecked. Gasping for air, he rests his forehead against Eames'. "Before I change my mind."

Grinning, Eames' fingers play with the knot in Arthur's towel.

"Please," Arthur rasps, sounding weaker than he means to.

Eames huffs. "Since you asked so nice." Arthur doesn't watch him go.

Once Eames is in the shower, Arthur takes a few minutes to order a proper breakfast for the two of them, nothing like what they've been indulging in the last few days, but Eames had been going a bit overboard with that anyway.

After the food is ordered, Arthur starts picking up again, decides to strip the sheets from the bed after he's done with the clothes. Eames emerges from the bathroom then, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel but otherwise naked. Arthur rolls his eyes.

Eames glances at the bed, then at the soiled sheets on the floor. "You are aware they pay people to deal with that?"

" _Nobody_ is paid enough to deal with _that_." He doesn't look at Eames, too busy searching through the wrinkled clothes to give Eames the attention he wants. Eames doesn't seem to care, though; keeps darting a hand forward to loosen Arthur's towel, even though Arthur keeps smacking his hand away.

"I wish I'd taken a second to put these away properly," Arthur sighs, mostly to himself, with another smack to Eames' hand. It comes too late, though. He can feel the towel slipping in the back, inch by inch until it's only a miracle that it hasn't fallen off. Arthur's sure if he lets Eames stare long enough, the weight of his gaze will have the towel off in no time. Of course, by this time, Arthur is hard and Eames is a long line of heat at his back, hair damp where it brushes his shoulder as Eames sucks a kiss into Arthur's neck.

Eames manages to turn Arthur around, backs him into the wall again and falls carefully to his knees, where he proceeds to give Arthur the slowest, most exquisite blow job of his life. Arthur can't look away from the sight of Eames on his knees; lips pink and shiny, wrapped around Arthur's cock. The fan of dark lashes, twinkling blue eyes. Eames is determined to draw it out and Arthur can only let him, mind blanking on the plan he'd been forming about how to talk to Eames.

"We _are_ going to talk, you know," he says, scowling down at Eames. Eames hums in return, drawing out the orgasm from the base of Arthur's spine. His hands cling to Eames' head, fingertips white where they press against the scalp.

Arthur comes shouting Eames' name, toes curling into the plush carpeting, legs trembling. He's pretty sure he'd be a puddle on the floor if Eames wasn't pinning Arthur to the wall by his hips. Just as he's about to pull Eames up by the back of his neck so he can return the favor, Arthur hears a knock at the door. His laugh is far too wild for the moment, but he doesn't have the energy to care.

"Just be a tick, darling," Eames says, grabbing Arthur's towel from the floor to wrap around his waist. Loose-limbed and a little fuzzy around the edges, Arthur somehow manages to slip into his boxer briefs and the jeans from yesterday, frowning all the way.

Eames comes back with the cart, chewing on a strawberry, and watches Arthur try to pick out which shirt is least wrinkled. Arthur can hear Eames digging around in his suitcase but doesn't pay him any attention until something soft hits him on the head and falls to the floor. "I know it's not your usual style," Eames says, setting out the food on the table, "But at least it's not wrinkled."

Arthur unfolds it to see what it is; the grease-stained Property of Warner Bros. t-shirt Eames had been wearing the day he gave Arthur a key to the cabin. A key he never gave back, now that Arthur thinks about it. Which is, unfortunately, the perfect in to the conversation they need to have. He pulls on the t-shirt before crouching in front of his messenger back to find his keys.

Behind him, Eames starts in on his breakfast. "I'm shocked, Arthur. Not putting up a fight about the shirt?"

Arthur can hear him crunching on a piece of toast, but can't turn back to look. His hands are shaking, which makes getting the key off the ring difficult. Once he does manage to get it off, he smooths his palms over the worn-soft shirt and places the key on the table next to Eames' plate.

"Here, before I forget." Eames stills, mid-bite, gaze focused on the key. He doesn't say anything for long moments, giving Arthur time to sit down, take a healthy sip of orange juice. Arthur is several bites into his scrambled egg whites when Eames finds his voice.

"You should keep that."

Arthur finishes chewing, hoping he can swallow his food around the lump in his throat. "Why?" he asks, finally, voice sounding rougher than he means it to.

"Emergency parties, a place to hide from your mom. For when you come by for Christmas break." He says it all with a thick dose of nonchalance, but the way he doesn't look at Arthur as he speaks tells Arthur all he needs to know, and it's a struggle for Arthur to not let his smile get out of hand.

It's not a talk, not by a long shot, but it's close enough for now.

: : :

Despite Arthur's protests, Eames insists on walking to campus with Arthur. "It's a bloody gorgeous day out," he insists, walking a little behind Arthur. "And since I'm going to be spending most of it trapped in a car--"

"A _convertible_ ," Arthur butts in.

"--a _car_ , I want to enjoy this morning. If you're ashamed to be seen with me, though, well that's another story. Run along then." He makes a shooing motion with his hand.

"You know I'm not," Arthur hisses, slowing his pace to match Eames'. They stay side-by-side, navigating together through the crowds of New Yorkers. The brush of their arms, the sudden tangle of their fingers, makes Arthur shiver. Walking hand-in-hand isn't something they've done, not really something they're doing now, but their closeness, the way it's so obvious that they're together (Arthur hopes), yet no one is sparing them a second glance, makes Arthur grin and grin all the way to Washington Square.

Eames catches Arthur's hand, then, slotting their fingers together to tug him close. Before Arthur can ask what's wrong, Eames kisses his parted lips, lingering at the corner of his mouth. "Make sure to do all your homework," he says, quiet, into the shell of Arthur's ear, kissing him there.

"And eat all your vegetables." Another kiss, over Arthur's pulse.

"Sleep is important, so be in bed by eleven." Another kiss on the crest of Arthur's cheek, making Arthur's eyes fall closed.

"But above all, have fun." He disentangles his hand from Arthur's, uses it instead to cup Arthur's head and tip it back for another kiss. It's soft and deep and wet and perfect, and Arthur doesn't want it to stop.

Of course, it does; the best ones always do. Eames pulls back and Arthur hooks a finger through a belt loop, keeping Eames close. He has a million things he wants to say, a million things he _should_ say, but for the first time, his brain betrays him and all he can do is stare.

Eames smiles, knowing, and wraps warm fingers around Arthur's wrist to guide it away. "Winter break, yeah?"

Arthur nods, throat tight. "Winter break."

"Brilliant." Eames kisses him one last time, lingering just a bit, letting Arthur breathe in the scent of him, then turns and walks back the way they came.

Arthur knows it makes him a bit of a sap, but he can't help staring at Eames' back until Eames is nothing more than a speck in the crowd. And if it's even sappier for Arthur to start counting down the days until winter break in his head? Well, he's okay with that, too.


End file.
